Colin F. Jones


Look how the clouds flock in the northern sky,
From distant fires where brave men do die,
Forming shrouds of grey and soiled white
To wrap the sounds of horror in their night.
‘Tis far away where the tempest wreaks its wrath:
Beyond the letterbox and the garden path.
So far away the screaming can’t be heard,
Of wounded children; old folk; shattered bird
Where ashes grey and black cannot be seen,
Where once the houses and the folk had been.
‘Tis all reflected in the veterans’ eyes,
The tragic cost of politics and lies,
Yet our tomorrows will our yesterdays repeat,
Because we wallow in our own deceit.