Colin F. Jones


A tiny fragment of a sandy waste,
Crushed by its neighbours ‘neath a steal sole,
Suffocates from the deserts haste,
To hide the substance of its grainy whole.
Tinged with red and dampened by a tear,
The fragment dies quite unknown, unseen,
Crumpling into particles of fear,
Dispersing into microscopic scenes,
Of useless empty bewildered little grains,
Of sand specks wedged in accumulating sacs,
Of air entrapped and faintly crimson stained,
Beneath the hardened caterpillar tracks,
Where seeps the life of some ones chosen shot,
Who knows now that his God will save him not.