Colin F. Jones

THE SNIPER

From inside a dark den,
I peer…
Through the trees
To the waterfall…
The rainbow formed,
Bridging crevices;
And I wait.
He looks so graceful,
Like a panther stalking…
Like a shadow in black silk…
With a fearful eye…
Cautious…
Movement is minute
And, looking up, he dies.

The sound he does not hear,
Resounding down the valley,
Being swept away by
Wind and water.
Inside the dark den
I remain;
Seeing my own shadow,
Clearly in the darkness.
What a sensation
Of elation it was,
Which now clings
To the echo as shame.

There are still trees,
And birds, and insects;
The sound of flowing water
And wind tickled leaves.
Nothing is altered
As the body fertilizes
The ground where it lies…
We will both be gone soon.
A butterfly lands on a thistle,
And I see clouds moving
In a hot sky.
They will all be gone tomorrow.
Only I will see them.

I will become a painter
Of yesterday’s scenes
As I age…
Still seeing my shadow
In the darkness.
With the darkness,
my shadow merges.
Becoming
whatever darkness is.
A distant light
That was distinguished
Long before its light
Was seen to die.

Like a star!