Colin F. Jones
WHAT IS THE POINT?
I have burdened myself with thought,
Trespassed in sacred fields,
Found what I have not sought,
That now I must yield,
Finding no purpose in pursuit,
Of vague shadows from the past,
Music on a string less lute,
Played to a phantom cast.
Guard thee thy secrets well,
Lest all that is not understood,
Sustains your private hell,
That all your rivers flood.
That shared, is not shared at all,
If by it one doth fall.
Why nurse the pain of it?
Why make it all mine?
In all this I don’t fit,
I’m but a particle in time!
… And they march each year in line;
they will march when I am gone,
as they did before my time,
clinging to past deeds done.
Tis a continual negative repeat
Of the same errors the same mistakes,
Living victories in defeat,
As doves that look like snakes,
The price of the freedom we savour,
Is the fear of our own neighbour.
What is there left to do then,
On legs that can no longer walk,
Through depleted forest and fen,
To view the vanished hawk?
We are but a passing phase,
Uniquely clothed in hope,
A few words in a phrase,
Feet standing on wet soap.
Do we not just totter along
Doing what we can’t and can;
Scribing new words to old songs,
Ending where we began.
There is left but the love of the child,
And doctors and nurses beguiled
©Copyright March 25, 2002 by Colin F. Jones