Colin F. Jones


Alone I sit and write and write,
Deep into this long humid night,
I can almost hear the booms of guns,
The flashing flames beyond the bunds,
The breaches crashing as they shut,
The excitement rising in my gut.
The Howitzers leaping as they fire,
Bouncing back on rubber tire,
As the shock waves of the cordite blast,
Clothe me in a propellant cast.
I hope those soldiers who were killed,
Had in their lives a love fulfilled,
That though they had no Christmas day,
God gave them comfort where they lay.