Colin F. Jones


Lines of women like rows of blossomed trees
And children near their feet like little bushes
Await the dozers rumbling on the breeze
Flattening homes and pushing over rushes
None have guns; none wear an armoured suit
No tanks no planes no knives or swords.
Only words and hearts and souls dispute
The advance of warlike marching hoards.
Who cares for them; who listens to their cries?
Who thinks of them as the wonderment they are?
Who feels the shame as their blossom dies,
Raped and left like blackened burnt out cars?
God!! Where are you, who made these callous men,
And yet demand we blame our selves again?