Colin F. Jones


How idle red tracer is,
how slow it is to move:
it snakes out like a bending wand,
to leave a mattered groove.
How still you see it in the air,
moments after it has passed,
tis then you sweat away despair,
When its white trail fades at last.
How sharp the crack beside the ear,
the vibration that you feel,
when death doth stretch so very near,
it seems so damned unreal,
and there is no time to know the fear,
that more youth from you doth steal.