Colin F. Jones


‘Tis but the feather of a wing that still doth fly,
That lingers as a thought in my mind’s eye,
For all I was is far away in past,
While now my life but half that span will last.
Memory makes me what I am it seems,
For there is no fire left in the current beams,
To shine with splendid light through spotless pane,
Where once having shone cannot shine again.
‘Tis all such waste a life lived at all,
For from every pinnacle surely one must fall,
To where in waiting for its fond increase,
One slips from life ere ending his long lease,
To seek in darkness with his sightless eyes,
The light so promised when a good man dies.

It is oft my sickness envying those I see,
Filled with fire as I once used to be,
Whose world it is for it can’t now be mine,
For the spring is gone and now it’s summertime.
Look what those young poets do as I retire,
To paint the spring with all that sweet attire,
Now flowers seem less beautiful to me,
For from my own sweet youth so fast I flee.
Is not recall of past; of past I say!
A simple form of presents overlay,
For what is left when the river finds the sea,
So vast; impersonal; a plain without a tree,
Where it ends all our hopes and dreams,
For nothing is as it really seems.