Colin F. Jones

I AM, SO I AM

Most know me not; my prison,
Is in being different from them all,
Having in my thoughts a vision,
That has a source I can’t recall.
Where truth, whatever truth is,
In the darkness is four walls,
With a single lighted window,
On which my vision falls.
In the margin of that sunlight,
That probes my silent cell,
I stand to evade the dark night,
‘Tis a heaven lost in Hell.
Mid the freedom that is lost,
I survive thus here I dwell.

Humbled, yes I am,
By the gracious way you reveal,
The pattern of my plan,
That my method might conceal.
Who guides me, well I know not,
Who inspires me I can’t say,
But the greatness of your reasoning,
Inspires new thoughts in me this day.
For you can only understand
If you have walked the gauntlet trail,
Through the change that scars the land,
Through the savage wind and wail.
One who knows the flower transplanted,
Is apt to wilt and fail.

I could bow before great Usan,
Before your God, his or mine,
Intertwine with Mother Nature
Count the days as all divine.
I could be enslaved to my creator,
As to men’s Kings I’m meant to be,
To one country keep the faith,
That no other vision I would see.
But where I hang my hat is home,
And so long as I am me,
Though I am stranded and alone,
With a clear eye I’ll always see,
Truths Spectres on the wind,
That seem to want to visit me.

The places I remember,
Are no longer places to be seen,
From January to December,
A lot of change takes place between.
Yet the tiny Saxon village,
Though ravished retains its core,
Its outskirts have been pillaged,
And the woodlands are no more.
But I still see the Silver Birches,
The brooks of polished stones,
The church steeple; still standing,
Not very far from my home.
The drab walls enclosing secrets,
Some would not choose to condone.

Yes I shall forever love my homeland,
Though the place where I was born,
Has been changed by man and time,
That I’m sometimes most forlorn.
Yet in the many places I have been too,
Where many different folk I’ve met,
The flowers dripped with the same sweet due,
As that that makes all our flowers wet,
All the Mothers loved their children,
All the fathers were bold and proud,
All with loving words had spoken,
All shared a hope beyond the shroud.
All spoke of peace and happiness,
All their voices clear and loud.

A tree will always be a tree,
A daffodil a flower;
I will always be, always me,
Every day and every hour.
I’m just a speck of dew upon,
A blossom of a tree,
None will notice when I’ve gone,
Perhaps not even me.
I will not have cast a single seed,
That will germinate and grow,
So none from who I was will breed,
If they do; I’ll never know.
And that small hope I sometimes need,
Lest my blood doth cease to flow.