Nothing More to Say 

(Regretful Lines Written To an Old Friend)

 

I would have been your friend, nothing more,  

           If you’d have let me in;

But friendship knocks in vain upon your door.

            It seems you play to win,

Or not at all.  And when I would not dance

            To suit the tune you play,

The jig was up.  And so I lost my chance.

            There’s nothing more to say.

 

You seem so cold, as cold as Snowdon’s dome,

            As cold as the snow-bound hills

From whence you came.  This never was your home,

            Nor could it be.  The frills

That thrilled you so much at the first must lose

            Their grip and so give way

To offers of better things.  You can’t refuse.

            There’s nothing more to say.

 

And yet I fear for you if you’re so blind

            That you can’t see the hurt,

The dust of disillusion left behind,

            The trust that must revert

To barren if not bitter soil; for when

            A day is called a day,

If one can’t call a friend a friend, well then,

            There’s nothing more to say.

 

Power, position, influence, a name

            Loom large on your horizon

You plan, you plot; you subtly make your aim

            Successful.  You’ll surprise them

As you surprised us.  Words once lightly spoken

            Have lightly blown away

Like waterless clouds.  When promises are broken,

            There’s nothing more to say.

 

I see it all so clearly now, but find

            Great comfort in the vision;

I think of what I might have left behind

            And rest in my decision.

For when we’ve cut through all the frills and fluff,

            When the hymns have all been sung,

The goal of Ministry seems plain enough:

            Climb up another rung.

 

There’s nothing more to say; and yet, somehow,

            I must extend my line.

I miss the friend I never knew; and now

            I fear the loss is mine.

God grant that we might each one die to pride

            And bend each to the other,

And whether here or on the Other Side,

            Grow friends as well as brothers.

 

Afterthought

 The van is here.  They trundle you away.

            Already you are gone.

At heart.  I fumble for the words to say

            To you; but there are none.

 

I took my pen and wrote, but it betrayed

            My baser, meaner thoughts.

Can a leopard, short of being flayed,

            Expect to change its spots?