Colin F. Jones

THE GLADE

A shaft of light pronounced the morning sun,
Through sleeping leaves into the tranquil glade
To glint upon the barrel of a gun
Somewhere deformed by underbrush and shade
No movement urged determination to be seen
Nor did a louder sound above the insects reach
The ears of black clad soldiers armed and lean
Who dawdled through the spotlights soft on each,
Who suddenly confused and out of breath,
Snatched at the crimson holes with great despair
As tiny leaden death seeds willing death
Struck them through the suddenly shattered air.
… And shadows robbed them as they lay in light,
Eyes rolling back into an unknown night.