Colin F. Jones


The tongues hang lifeless creased with dried out veins,
No longer limp and polished to an opal glow,
And all about the weed wound tops are stains,
That run the length to heel and to the toe.
Dull eyelets with copper ringlets still mud-caked
Cling still to failing edges where they fray,
Blinded by dried grime long since baked,
Retaining history of a more noble day.
Inside the hollow webbed holes that held two feet,
There lingers yet the echo of their tread,
And the silent whisper through the jungle fleet,
Absorbing blood that from above them bled.
They will in time be eaten by the Earth,
And lose the essence of their wearer’s worth.

Submitted for the October 2002 IWVPA Club Theme Project, “Combat Boots