Terminally ill Australian author, critic and raconteur Clive James has detailed his revelations of life and death in an emotional poem.

The prolific writer was diagnosed with leukaemia in 2010 and is battling terminal emphysema – a condition that prevents him returning to Australia from the UK.

The poem Japanese Maple was published by The New Yorker, and is being lauded as James’ last work.

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In it, James predicts his death is “near now” but will be “of an easy sort” as “so slow a fading out brings no real pain”.

The 74-year-old also describes his growing fascination with nature as his condition deteriorated, and writes about the beauty of the Japanese maple tree given to him by his daughter.

“Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame,” he writes.

“What I must do is live to see that.”

The poem ends with an acknowledgement by James that he led an extraordinary life.

Read the poem in full here:

Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.

So slow a fading out brings no real pain.

Breath growing short

Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain

Of energy, but thought and sight remain:

Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see

So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls

On that small tree

And saturates your brick back garden walls,

So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?

Ever more lavish as the dusk descends

This glistening illuminates the air.

It never ends.

Whenever the rain comes it will be there,

Beyond my time, but now I take my share.

My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.

Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.

What I must do

Is live to see that. That will end the game

For me, though life continues all the same:

Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,

A final flood of colours will live on

As my mind dies,

Burned by my vision of a world that shone

So brightly at the last, and then was gone.