Stalemate Poem by David Lewis Paget

I have no words, nor patterns left
To spill, my dear,
No facile quotes, no wisdom
To dispense,
Nor any careless answers at
My time of year
All that was lost, or sold,
Or buried, spent.

All gone; the well is dry, the depths
I tried to reach
Devoured me long before
I found you there,
I lent with empty gestures
What I thought to teach,
And questioned truth, if even truth
Could care.

So what is left; a feeling we
May not express,
While I doubt more and more
This arabesque,
That you find comfort now
More in my tardiness,
While I take heart at questions
You don't ask.

29 March 1989