Colin F. Jones

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While resting beneath the purple dawn,
Somewhat distressed and most forlorn,
He marked the well worn pathway nigh,
With trained and cautious fearful eye.
Where once his comrade brave had stood,
There was a shadow bathed in blood,
And rumpled contoured with the ground,
He lay a lifeless mattered mound.
And leaves still green were floating down,
In margined light that masked his frown,
And still his ears were deaf and numbed,
And to his fear he had succumbed,
For now along the pathway came,
The shapes of soldiers through his pain.

He hardly felt the rips and tears,
Nor smelt the smoke of falling flares,
Nor even heard the screams and shouts,
“Help me, help me, with the scouts”
He felt not the hands that gripped his feet,
Nor knew his face with Earth did meet,
He only knew he was not dead,
Though it was all so hazy in his head.
He felt them lift him; heard the sound,
The whoofing rotors going round,
Then blackness took his thoughts away,
Into the realms of yesterday,
To dream of days of love and joy,
When he was happy as a boy.