Colin F. Jones


The sun bleeds over the horizon,
Spreading crimson pools of tear,
Undulating lakes of heat-waves,
Wherein dancing shadows disappear.
On the shattered plain they huddle,
Among the stones and choking dust,
In the vermillion widespread puddle,
Bubbling from the windswept crust.
The helmed brow in heat perspires,
The steel of weaponry grows hot,
Behind the sandbags that conceal them,
From the deadly well aimed shot.
Another Afghan morning sunrise,
While the powers that be do plot.