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
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