THE LAKE, THE STREAM, AND THE SONG

Walking by the lake, in the mist and dark,
You said, though I can’t remember why,
‘Love hurts’, and I said, too quickly, ‘It does,
But not as much as toothache’, pretending
Only that kind of pain can touch me now.
Foolish, foolish words; and you didn’t laugh,
For I had diverted your cheerful talk
Into a meaning my own, not your intent
If intent there was – ‘Do I talk too much?’
So the burble of our conversation changed,
And as we walked along, silent I wondered
What you meant, whether, improbably,
You had in mind that heart-felt song I sent you,
Which you liked, you kindly said, that lament
Of a broken man, begging the woman he loved
Not to turn away from him, unable to meet
Her need where her need was, not take herself
Away because he could not have nor hold her.
She, silent in this song, almost in despair I think,
Desperate to know what she had not known,
The life in her longing for a love complete
Resisting the sad petition of love only words,
Even as you resist these you do accept,
Words unable to move towards and take her,
The hapless words of a man wounded deeply
In body, as I in soul, looking into the dark
Of his dying years, who saw in her beauty
Where I see yours, the wholeness of his love
Impossible, her pain and his unbearable –
Yours you know, but do you know his?
Pausing perhaps at the door before she goes –
‘For God’s sake turn around’ – you glance lightly
Across the silent, misty lake where the brook
Diverted flows in, flows out, and then flows on
Glinting and dancing in the moonlight, intent
On a course it cannot know, flowing freely
From where still and silent I must remain.