Colin F. Jones


Midnight – and my sorrow,
face another day,
Morning brings tomorrow,
more death and decay.
Transposed from dark to daylight,
the awful scenes remain,
For though the day is different,
the bodies are the same.
Pot bellies round and bloated,
attracting squalid fly,
Where once alive they gloated,
to see their bold foe die.
Mud and filth surrounds them,
in potholed shattered ground,
where shells from guns and aircraft,
the day before did pound.
The cordite smoke is rising,
like fumes of wasted breath,
from the shattered Earth comprising
of slaughtered men and death.
Here there is no dignity,
no gracious smiles to view,
Just blood and guts and broken bones,
where once sweet flowers grew.
The Lord God did not save them:
What would he save them for?
There is no honour residing here,
in this filthy bloody war!
Oh they will be remembered,
until their families die,
til more young men dismembered,
are of their lives denied.
And it will be repeated,
So long as man doth greed!
Until terror is defeated!
Then men will die and bleed.