Colin F. Jones


The smoke never clears, from an old soldiers mind,
Nor the memories of comrades he left far behind,
The guns keep on firing the shells they still fall,
And the pain in his head can’t make sense of it all.
He hears the hiss of the cordite; the ring of the breach,
The flash from the barrels the deadly rounds screech.
He can still smell the mud; feel the torrents of rain,
The bites of the insects and the deep inner pain.
He feels a great loneliness cloaking his mind,
Of those folk around him to their love he is blind,
For the smoke never clears from an old soldiers head,
Nor the memories of comrades out there lying dead.
His mind dwelt on family while he was at war…
But now he is home, he thinks of them no more.