Colin F. Jones


Wars are never won; they never end:
Each is a battle in a greater war.
That pass into past and condescend,
Into a winter that has no time to thaw.
Each lull called peace dips like the bows,
Of ships that sail through heavy seas,
Or like a farmers horse drawn plough,
That cleaves the row for new sewn seeds.
For from the tank track ruts new growth,
Wipes out the stain from bloody grass,
Replacing it with greener stems,
To bloody again as new tanks pass;
And from the shocking horrid scene,
History paints a picture of where man has been.