The Weathered Scarf of Tartan Pain

What is it then that holds us in its grasp For fear has fled and love too long denied Restrains itself within the hour of taps Binding itself to latent tears uncried For time will pass among the stoic stones Count cadence for the passing hood and scythe As leaves of broken dreams that hang alone Cling to failed promises of coming home. So does the weathered scarf of tartan pain Conceal the graying edge of times disdain Soft colors bleeding through the moors and brae Inflame the sunrise wish to come, to stay. For those who rest beneath this solemn earth Are those who bore the colors, gave it worth. John G. Lawless 1/31/2020