Colin F. Jones


I saw my Mother live her last years in pain,
And now I see my Father do the same,
No doubt I will myself this trend retain,
For in growing old there’s nothing to be gained.
Condemned to death from the day of birth,
We bloom and ripen in the hallowed turf,
To reproduce ourselves upon this Earth,
Until decay defines our real worth.
So many die and none do die in glee,
Yet oft do pray to do so to be free,
For time but strips the bark from gallant tree,
And where we rot the evidence is there to see.
By hope betrayed we lose our dignity,
And die alone as it was meant to be.

How lucky they were who died where they did go,
On the field of battle against a worthy foe,
For Country, King and honour and you know,
For love of comrade that did grow and grow
I hear the guns of battle the din so loud,
The shouting, yelling the thinning ranks so proud,
The low smoke o’er their bodies like a shroud,
And later at their funerals the weeping crowd.
We march here every one alongside mates
All losing what we were, as time abates;
For none from pain and anguish ‘ere escapes,
Which is the great reward that calmly waits.
Why does my Father suffer; beg for death?
This ill reward is all he now has left.