Colin F. Jones


The boisterous cannon burps its arrogant rounds
From insecure base where it leaps upon the ground.
With trails spread wide and spades resisting while
They hold in mud that is black and foul and vile.
The “crack” is piercing; the covered lobe is sore,
The backward pressure elates the thrill of war,
While like a vibrant horse, rearing in the shafts,
The gunners around the recoil work their crafts.
Into smoking breach the rounds are driven home.
Bubbles levelled! Ready! Fire, load!
Clothed in cordite, sweat and jungle green,
The servants of the gun work as a team
And when the shooting stops the silent din
Resonates through the cordite growing thin.