Colin F. Jones


Somewhere the rain washes clean his bones
That lie in debris in the jungle green,
For a thousand animals they make a thousand homes,
Live in great trees and purify the stream.
The Lord looks down with pride upon his Earth,
For where man dies he sees his efforts best,
For where they die they return to birth,
To fulfil the sacred purpose of their quest.
We mourn so long for those who, absent, leave
A dark pit inside from wherein their cries do come;
Frustrated and with anger we may seethe,
But the persistent well of dread is never done.
There is no cure for this except to pray,
That where he is, is revealed to us someday.

Submitted for the May 2002 IWVPA Club Theme Project, “Missing In Action