“And where, but in constant circularity/Is all this moving headed?/The answer Cannot be death…”
The sound of traffic builds and subsides—
A composition of engine noise and
Tires, an occasional trailer rattle—
In its accompaniment, a vaguely circular
Swaying comes and goes in the full,
Leafy ends of branches and boughs
High above and overhanging
The river and its pale reflected sky.
Traffic, wind, and water flow in steady
Variation: Drawn, forced, encouraged
According to essence, need, desire,
Environment—the whole complexity
Of being—and so the mind, the heart,
Travel inwardly, traipsing amid
A world apart, in a motion of light and
Shade, as that of the passing clouds.
And where, but in constant circularity,
Is all this moving headed? The answer
Cannot be death, for it is no impetus
To continuance, but the given end:
And this then is journeying without
Destination, where revolution follows
Revolution, as a disturbance in dusty trees,
In the flooded valley, on a winding road.
Harold Jones is a New Zealander, who was educated at Cambridge University, where he was awarded an Exhibition to read English. His poetry has been widely published in literary journals in the United Kingdom and New Zealand, and it has won the acclaim of pre-eminent critics and poets: among them, Ted Hughes, who wrote, “I hear a real voice, a real movement of mind cutting through resistances.” In the United States, his poems appear in Merion West and VoegelinView.
