Colin F. Jones


When I go there I hear the guns;
I am drawn back in time;
I hear the shouts; smell the cordite;
And taste the grime.

I hear the choppers and the rain,
The endless monsoon rain,
And when I think about it all,
I feel the pain.

Mostly though, I just feel sad,
So very, very sad,
For friends and for other folk,
Friends I never had.

I don’t want to hear the guns again,
So I stay away,
No point to that; no joy, no gain,
So yes, I stay away.