In the early morning mist the ghost fleet came
Dark shapes all scattered beyond the silver surf
Narrow, golden, streaked with crimson grain
The stretch of beach at Dunkirk gave them worth.
Soldiers lined the dunes in ranks and pain,
Singing hymns and songs of joy and faith;
Gripped with fear and hunger as they prayed
As the German aircraft constantly bombed and strafed.
They waded out to the boats in single lines,
Braving the sea and cold and the breath of shells.
Great hope of hope is what such fear defines;
The crimson surf drowning the horror of their yells.
But dad got home after seven days on the beach
And I was born, safely out of reach.
©Colin F. Jones
2nd September 2001
In May 1940 my Father was a British soldier of the expeditionary force trapped on Dunkirk Beach in France. He was fortunate and was evacuated after spending 7 days experiencing the horror of the place. While he was there, back in England I was born on Empire day, May 24.
Them what live in shacks of sticks,
wiv dorgs and scraggy cats,
Catchin' blowhards from the criks,
as bait fer catchin bats,
Sleep on lizards skins at night,
wiv pillows made from bags,
Glory in the star filled night,
As they suk on ome made fags.
They luv the nellie in their throats,
And the buzz inside their heads,
And dress up in their Emu coats,
Or all get drunk instead
Each leap year breed the Kangaroos,
Crossed with a sheep or four,
Make woolly jumpers for the crews,
That sail off from the shore.
The cuckaburras laugh like hell,
And the parrots chatter back,
To see the moonlight cast its spell,
Through all wots bloody black.
'hey mit, ya wanna nother snort?
'Cause the port she's runnin out,
is oft the only sad retort
on their favourite walkabout
But let me tell you while I can,
me mate was one of them,
who lost his life in vietnam,
never came 'ome agen.
so round this spot, this sacred place,
our boomerangs are thrown no more,
cause 'arry of the abo race,
was kild in that there war.
©Colin F. Jones
8th February 2002
How does it feel to watch a soldier die;
To see his life bubble from his breast,
To watch the frigid roll of his white eye
And see deaths evil germ his soul infest?
He, shattered, lays; a wasted torrid mound
Of rotting flesh flame burning in his coat.
One of many dissembled on the ground
Where in the mud and blood the leaches float.
How could one feel beyond the fear and shock
That drains his mind of thought with awful haste
And jolts his heart that ticks a booming clock
While in his mouth, his spit turns foul to taste?
One may well ask but he will not reply
Though a thousand times he'll see that same man die
©Colin F. Jones
17th May 2001
(Deploying Artillery guns in Vietnam)
The great green birds with flapping wings
Descend from where the skylark sings
In swirling dust and flying flocks
Of shattered scrubs and broken rocks
It lands its circling wings aflap
Green soldiers spit out from its lap
Who crouching run as bulky forms
To where the grassy earth performs
A lively dance from rotor draught
That lift it up this hovering craft
With nostrils smelling out the way
The chopper lighter skims away
Climbs until it tips to speed
Away across the wood and weed
The guns are dropped like precious eggs
Upon their twisted bony legs
Displayed in deadly wanton arks
Above the pegged out aiming marks
Subservient gunners tend their wares
Renders sight and voice prepares
Prepare their fodder tipped with death
That pant with eager cordite breath
To make a pathway through the sky
Encased in steel and primed to die
To suicide with hollow din
Upon the house they shatter in
That crumples with defiant cross
In tragic useless hopeless loss
Colin Jones
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