Alone, creviced in his bath chair
Near the sedge and withered lake
He draws from the deep well of memory.
His mountains crunch against the high clouds.
They breach the fels of freedom.
The wind soughs in the bracken trees
Like a dark Greek chorus.
 
The mocking bird
Warbles its song of love
And the cuckoo strikes its clock.
The Styx of memory
Unfolds its gift of death.
 
The blind old man
Sinks below the breathable
Alone and palely loitering.
The stream ambles on
Undulating the lovers to their rest.
Here lies eternal earth
The magic fountain of all creation.
​

Gar Jones:  May 2012/November 2016

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