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

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