Colin F. Jones


A parsimonious sky rejecting fleeting cloud,
Spreads a grey-blue blanket o’er the desert brown,
As the gusts of wind and zephyrs form a shroud,
About their bodies from which their eyes do frown.
Clothed as the desert with its varied hues,
They bake ‘neath sun that has a merciless eye,
Among the waddies and confusing dunes,
Where some will stay alive and some will die.
Lethal germs here out number desert grain,
And poison air that it’s not fit to breath,
Few things impart such agonising pain,
That soldiers plead for quick and instant death.
Far greater threat lives in the toxic germ,
Than nuclear weapons and their fires that burn.