Colin F. Jones
~ 1 ~
His face is not in horror set;
His jaw is firm and muddy, but
Still glistens with a golden sweat,
From where his eyes are gently shut.
A curl, by breeze disturbed from rest,
Tries to vacate in vain its root,
And flickers like a little pest,
Until it meets his brows dispute!
It traps itself in blood and grime,
Where from takes wing a little fly
That quickly turns back just in time
To feel the soldier’s final sigh.
And soon his face is so relaxed
It looks as though tis made of wax.
~ 2 ~
A steel pipe attached to wood
Had drawn its users frightened eye
Along the light line to the hood
To where the vee was standing by
To pinpoint where the victim stood,
And where the victim might soon die,
If the shooters aim was any good;
If he could set his weeping eye!
A single shot a single sound;
A bursting temple belching blood,
A writhing body on the ground
Lying where he once had stood.
The furrow which formed upon his brow,
Resembled the dead man’s wound somehow…
~ 3 ~
Still in the air the echo clung
To humid waves of shimmering heat
In which its vibration fades among
till slowly died its ill repeat.
Despite the ignorance of the breeze,
Distorting beauties overlay
By finding things to tug and tease,
Deaths silence had her morbid way.
From where she lay in troubled sleep,
A woman woke in cold despair,
Saved from her dream of fog and sleet,
Hands all entangled in her hair…
And God’s sweet Angel from her bed
Arose at once and quickly fled.
~ 4 ~
The cherry trees are blooming now;
Their blossoms, hanging from the bough,
Are filled with colour fresh and new,
Drenched in the mornings silver dew.
Tis sunlight dancing in her hair
That gilds her locks with golden light
That frames her brow with beauty fair,
Where from sweet joy has taken flight.
Faint pathways down her silken cheeks,
Made by the ebb of teary flow
Describes her hearts voice as it speaks
Of all the grief it doesn’t show.
For though he’s dead there in the grave
She will, his love, forever crave.
~ 5 ~
A soldier pauses by a tree
To gaze intently all around;
The sniper hidden he can’t see
And does not hear the rifle sound.
In shocked response he’s floating free,
Swimming in a misty sea;
His essence obscurely drifting by,
He knows he is about to die.
Then all is darkness swirling storm,
Calmness changing all his form
Into a tranquil sort of grace,
To vanish then without a trace…
Can you see them? Like butterflies
Rising up towards the skies!!
©Copyright March 15, 2002 by Colin F. Jones