Colin F. Jones


It matters more that the dandelion blooms,
than preserving Caesars in their selfish tombs,
that insects round the buttercups do play,
than praising presidents who resist decay.
It matters more that everyday there be,
A parrot perching in a wondrous tree
that a snowman by a child is made,
that a Mother’s love does not ever fade.
It matters more than all the gold and greed,
the germination of a little seed,
the trickling splendour of the silver stream,
the quiet moment of a private dream…
more than the soldier’s distorted face,
that in wonderland can have no place.