Colin F. Jones


Sand from the high hill blown by the breeze,
Makes the small hills higher than the tall pine trees,
Reducing the high hill that it must wait for the wind,
To blow the sand from the low hills on which it depends.
The sea laps the landforms and steals away the grain,
From its ever fraying edges until no beaches remain,
So the old land goes under water as the new land evolves,
Renewing all the problems that it perpetually solves.
Chinese or Americans they will all have their day,
As they build their great nations and watch them decay
They will charge across the oceans across the battle fields,
Looking for the ingredients to replenish broken shields,
Fighting in the Church yards and hiding in the pews,
Until another Summer season dries up all the dews.