Colin F. Jones


He did not die though he fell down
From the blast that smashed his head
His temples bearing crimson crown
And his uniform was red
Beyond the light of day there beamed
A mist of foggy pain
Wherein he floated as he screamed
And lived to die again
An Angel touched his battered brow,
Provoked his mind to think
That through those desperate hours somehow
With life he formed a link
To rise a poet for the world,
To read and thus to drink.

Author’s Note: For Gary Jacobson