> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.merionwest.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # The River Walk - URL: https://www.merionwest.com/the-river-walk/ - Published: 2022-04-24T17:20:04.000Z - Updated: 2026-06-29T04:20:02.000Z - Author: Harold Jones - Tags: Poetry, Arts, Legacy, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2025-05-06 12:48 1 > We enter at a loose, lichened gate— > Wet to touch—that pushes open > Over a shallow pool of rainwater, giving > Out onto a thin, muddy trail > Trod falteringly through lanky grass. > Many others must enter here, > But on our walk, we’re on our own. > Behind, the rusted metal latch swings > To uncertain closure on the houses— > Half-curtained, fenced, rough-gardened— > Their firewood stacked under a carport > Here, an old tarpaulin there. > This place gets fiercely cold, and > Weatherboard holds small warmth. > Our car rests on an angle—locked, > I check—under the low-hung boughs > Of a scruffy pine, where the verge tips > Into thick grass, then tangled growth > To where the river must be: there—seen > Now—between trees, willows, brush— > Shining, placid, cloud-grey, green, black. 2 > This is our own earth, water, path ahead, > And there is nothing more, for now, > Than this wavering track and what we > Make of it ourselves—no others among > Those that come this way will take > Our route exactly—we look to what’s > Coming, and go where impulse takes us. > We walk in a shifting consciousness > of each other, in awareness of the trees, > Their leaves—new, pale green overhead— > Broken, lifeless underfoot—hearing— > Listening or without listening—flickers > In the thin and thickening canopies > Responding to movements in the air. > So do we come and go, in momentary > Response to a word, to the disclosure, > Again, of the reflective water, the sunlight > Patterning the earth, the care we give > Roots, hollows, guttering the track, and > We do not choose to be separate, nor to > Know ourselves and this combined. > And you too, walking by me, are part > Of this mystery of creation—separate, > Whole—yet conceived in this, > The external, and in your own > And my realities, as I am in yours, and > Thus we, separately and together, > Are here and not here, on foot and not. 3 > Ahead, our approach is to the vacancy > Of mown grass, a metal climbing frame, > A slide, picnic table—all unpeopled > Now—and it is an approach to childhood: > Ours, and the childhood we share > With all who run to these—for they > Must be involved in us, as you in me. > We are not alone—cannot be—here > Or anywhere: invisible children > Grasp these bars, hang, make of them > Frames of reference for mind, hands > And feet—join arms, legs, heads, > In air, in swirling grass and clouds, > Shout in the thrills of flight, of unison. > We know these feelings, although > My leap up is awkward, inadequate, > Mere entertainment in complicity > With you. As fast as tried, I let go > My feeble hold and drop—middle-aged, > Heavy-footed—to the ground. > Those days are past. Or can they be? > Is it not, rather, that every moment > A certain future has been closed? > I cannot jump, lift myself bodily, > Swing along these rails, as I did, > But all that I have done exists: > It cannot be unmade. Every act, event, > That happens remains in its happening. 4 > We have not walked far—minutes— > But we will always walk this track, > Step between these roots, crush > Underfoot the dry and wasted leaves. > We will do this through eternity. There is > No assertion in this beyond the fact > That our activity is real. It exists. > Can existence be unmade? The river > To our side flows through all time, > And flows outside of time, has risen > From the banks and thickets > Of its everyday course, as the birds we hear > Will chatter still: every moment created > Is. By coming into being, it will be. > So we jump and swing ourselves, hand > Over hand, along other pairs of rails, > Stomach muscles curling, legs kicking > Forward, behind, and the monkey bars > Are loud with other kids, calling above > The ready hands and arms of parents: > All this will be—as we too—here always. 5 > And we, walking together—parents > Ourselves—will always lift and watch > Our squealing young, and catch them > Round wriggling waists in dropping: and > This is something marvellous, that we > Can bring existence into being, and not > Children only, but what we choose. > Every choice, action of ours, holds, fixes, > The chosen, acted, thing in the eternal— > Holds it as the thorns on this blackberry— > And alters what can be. The river, > Invisible somewhere at our side, > Is always a thing stilled, always seen, > A current that is constant and immobile. > And while we walk ahead, we are still > As the river in its flow: and allowing > Its force in me, I know myself carried > In a sustaining, supportive stream, > Nothing separate from it, from you— > All human, natural, disjunction ceasing— > But thinking this gets in the way. I stop. > My steps have become uncertain—a foot > Caught in the twisted roots of things— > I lose balance, certainty. I cannot undo > Mind, imagine it away, I carry it and > Separation as myself: I am not you, > The river, trees, the one who swung > On other climbing frames. I too am other. 6 > But we walk on, and will, and choose > To pass this side of a tree or that, and > What we choose at every turn is further > Creation of our being, and though > We chose nothing of the trees, the water, > They come too, along with ourselves: > Inhuman, indifferent, companiable. > And if our steps—half chosen, half > Determined by those before—led > To meandering along this public trail, > They bring us here, to a place > Elsewhere, where there is no motion > In time, no separation from each other, > The river, or disjunction from the whole. > This place cannot be held as we might > Hope or try, any more than I the rails: > It is outside of time, and these thoughts, > Hopes, belong, remain, within us, > Within the mortal, in a kind of stumbling, > But this is where you and I, in love, > Chose this path that we together follow. > And all that is—all to come—can never > Erase our experience, our togetherness, > Here or anywhere, and not by any > Action of my words, but because these > Have been real, and having been, are > Parts of the entire fabric of existence, > No matter where the river walk ends*.* ### Harold Feil Jones is a New Zealander, educated at Cambridge University, where he was awarded an Exhibition 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.