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Song of Scotland
A poem remembering ancestors in the spring
Breezes and sunshine — a plaid
blanket laid
upon the grass. Whenever aid
is denied me in the battle between id
and ego, I’ll picnic at the River Dee.
Ghosts drift along the banks there,
where thistles meet the sky. Here,
my ancestors departed ere
they starved. A bland
tale — a mutiny of sheep — farmers losing land,
America beckoning and
answered, usage
rights abandoned. In descendant hindsight, a sage
choice. But I dream of a long-ago age
picnicking beneath the shade of castles, and I remind
myself of tartans lost. I’m of the mind
to build up stony fortunes my family undermined.
The highlands sing dirges to cairns and clast,
but only a family’s stories — and future — will last.
This is a poem written in . It’s a fun format where you take away a letter from the last word of each line. For example, you can see that in my first stanza, the ending…
