History on a Stone

The rain falls, one drop then two

The Highland mists clear away.

He navigates around the stones

To the one bearing his family name,

To the one, weathered and worn, of the shamed man,

To the one he’d shunned, despised, detested.

His hand bleeds, one drop then two

Nothing like the blood of his friend,

Lying wounded and dying in his arms.

That grave on the other side of the yard

With fresh flowers, ubasque, and mournful pipes.

This one with moss, cracks, and unruly grass.

The cut bleeds, one drop then two

Sharp pain becomes dull, focus returns

To the stone, strong and round,

Shaped by the harsh Highland weather.

Sharp edges, retaliate from being forgotten

When he only reaches out to pet.

He lets the blood drip, one drop then two

Towards the ground, lumpy and full.

His eyes look upon the faded words,

Words he’s read a hundred times before

Only now he understands.

Only now he cares to.

He lets the blood fall, one drop then two

Against the headstone, a trail of bright red.

His blood remains, to cover the shame

His heart remains, to restore honor.

This man has been his past,

This man is himself.

He lets the tears fall, one drop then two

Each tear makes new peace,

Each sob makes guilt melt.

So long denying who he has come from

And now understanding what it means to be

And what it means to be dead.

He lets his hands down, one drops then two

Burring under the folds of tartan for warmth.

As solid fog moves back in where confusion had been.

Pure presence where fire and pain had been.

Now there will be only mystery and adventure.

And I will bring it all to him.