Colin F. Jones


While the blades of choppers applaud the shell holed ground,
Where men in green stoop through the shimmering grass
The field guns leap in recoil from the rounds,
That shatter bodies as though they’re made of glass
Dust clouds rise as green clad men spill out
Running for the cover of the trees
Some not knowing what it’s all about
Others just pretending so to please
And round their heads there billows smoke and wind
And screaming lost in yelling fakes their fear
As through the land in churches folk do sing
Distorted hymns that dull their hearts with cheer
For while we sweat and die and lie in blood
They live the life that soldiers never could

Wild water down wild drains doth spill
Down through the grates in streets there underfoot
Polluted rush through pipes all lain downhill
As into fire down chimneys falls black soot
His ghost climbs from the crimson flowing stream
And creeps by night into his dear wives head
And she, alarmed, doth waken with a scream
For someone absent lies within her bed
Love cries out loud within her bursting heart
As agony describes his tender touch
Death rears its head and tears them both apart
Leaving nothing useful left to clutch
Blood trickles down the leaves on to the ground
Wherein it soaks without the slightest sound