by Nick Gisburne
His suits are smart but unpretentious, neat
Exchanging visors only when he must
With practised ease his murder weapons greet
The grim, organic creatures of the dust
Prosthetic beads detect their acid breath
Before his probe’s array can warp or melt
With daily resurrections after death
The strengths of his design are clearly felt
Synthetics, soldiers, comrades, fail and fall
With structural deficiencies and ills
A few may not regenerate at all
But he endures, to sterilise these hills
The Gentlemen Colonials persist
To claim another sector from their list
