Poem – Harold Jones

In Autumn or in Spring

Nothing remains, and yet everything

Does – and this is the truth

Of all the constant vanishing

And continuance. Both are

And are not. The finished leaves

That moulder under the rain

Are fresh on the trees, and those

New green on the boughs

Rot in brown and blackening earth.

And we too are caught in these

Blown and sinking mounds, in the colours

To come – or if not caught, freed

In this conjunction of being

And non-existence. It is here in this

Impossible moment, place, that

I am and you are and we are loved

Wholly – loved with all who have been or

Will be. And so little means to know it.

For this is what is endlessly created

And destroyed, and in this flux

Is constant. Not ourselves – we are neither

Real nor unreal, except that love

Makes and unmakes us, forms the one

And the other, sets us in the warm

And bitter air, where we grow

Together with these fixed and waving

Branches, without season, without end.

Harold Jones

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