Colin F. Jones


In a dark place I lie, no stars no moon,
No sound, except my own, rhythmic breath.
Had I awoken to witness my own doom?
Had I experienced my own morbid death?
Tiny sounds now growing to a din
Fill my ears to make my poor head pound
“What is this? I think it’s made from tin
It’s firm and metal and, yes it’s round!”
I look up and back and see a pale light
No stars do wink in the monsoonal sky
Yet something creeps into my lonely night
Sweet comfort from a long relaxing sigh
‘Tis dark this pit on this battlefield of war
Yet for a moment… ‘Twas an Angel I am sure