Colin F. Jones


If I could choose what I have been,
It would I think be an old man’s dream,
Yet dreaming thus I know it plain,
Alas, my youth, won’t come again.
As well it be, that I’m not him,
With tidy muscle; gaunt and trim,
For then I’d want to serve again,
Where men die bravely without shame,
And maybe for a while pretend,
That I had died and not my friend,
That he could know what old men know,
And watch the morning sun aglow,
That he could maybe just pretend,
That he had died and not his friend.