Colin F. Jones


I return to that which is not there,
Yet though it’s absent I despair.
For somehow what I left behind,
Still lives, surviving in my mind.
None but I can see those trees,
Hear the whisper of rustling leaves,
The downpour of the teeming rain,
The smell of smoke; the flash of flame!
Yet there is peace and silence now,
The landscape rumpled by the plough,
I guess I took it all away,
When I departed on that final day,
To become what I have now become,
A man regretting what he’s done.