Colin F. Jones


How could I call this good place home,
Before tilling the ground of grass and stone,
Fighting rising floods and fearful fires,
Hunger pains and ill desires?
Before my hands were blistered from the hoe,
The Axe and crosscut saw and bow,
And from the handles of the plough,
And the reins of the horses I steered somehow.
How could I believe this land my own,
Before the rows of precious seeds were sown,
And before I’d worn the Jungle green
And become an accepted part of a fighting team,
For hardship prepares us for the role,
Of accepting peace deep in the soul.