“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, educated at Cambridge University, where he was awarded a scholarship to read English. For 20 years and, more recently, another ten, he sent no work for publication, preferring to work at its development. His work has appeared in major poetry journals in the United Kingdom and New Zealand and has won the attention of leading critics and poets, among them, Ted Hughes: “I hear a real voice, a real movement of mind cutting through resistances.” Recent work appears in Merion West and VoegelinView.
