Ode to the Scottish Traveller
We journey on this path together; sometimes yes, sometimes not so much. With a thread of gold to guide us, even still we all loose our way. We misplace that perfect and simple thing. Sometimes we are the stranger come to town.
Cathartic tears cleanse the conscience. Upon the trestle board we divine our plan. Ashlar in hand we strike to find perfection. I have missed that stone too many times to count, becoming my ballast dear. My expectation is not of you, it is but hopeful joy in the light of our path to truth.
I misplaced her emerald light northerly, yet still I row. The beat those words one for three still yet left unanswered. Yes, I know. The pear my Dane, I kneel mourning the loss of its sweet taste. We speak now in dreams, too quiet to remember with dawns early light. Caught, as we are, at the rail to gaze, upon yon distant shore, emancipation unproclaimed under arm of Crain. “Just answer truthfully”, Denny said, “your own truth.” I was afraid. I still am, I will perhaps, always be.
So to Denny, to Eva, to the journey and yes to you my dear a toast and song with tartan heart I cheer: My pine, yearns knot, the holy stone. Lord Gimlet knew the truth, tho’ he spoke it not. He as a fool do I stand, yet still to be, that simple kind of man. To love my dear, I raise glass in hand.
In other words…