Blue, Green, Red and Purple: Prisoner's March
Each man is an island as the prisoners march in Betty Collins’s poem. But there is a hint of hope…
Cold and crisp the clang of our black boots
and crystal water dripping and freezing; clear ice:
our thoughts white memories
bright like snow on the khaki present:
the pain, sharp, of salve on our backs
clothes that may comfort, food that may feed.
In the retreating horizon
hanging in judgement
blank and heavy
crumpled clouds:
blind to our blisters
each man an island
Heedless his neighbour plods beside him.
Inactive Hope, veiled like the orient
(where is no sun) suggests the scent
of cherry blossom. (Spring will come)
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