He stands alone, a stern sailor,
implacable and grim;
the cold sea of his loneliness
stretches leagues before him.
He gazes across blue waters
to the far horizon,
resolute captain of his soul,
lord with no emblazon.
Shining out from the solemn eyes:
the brave heart of a knight,
the memories of a mystic,
nightmares dark and dreams bright.
He is one of saintly ideals;
the discerning presence
of his entire generation
rest upon his conscience.
He stands as though he's an island,
the stones of his own will
protecting him from love's fierce gales,
whose wan ghosts haunt him still.
He says his heart is still wounded,
bound by reinforced steel,
never-again-to-be broken,
scarred yet, and slow to heal.
How I know all this to be true !
For I have met, first hand,
the granite of his convictions,
the staunchness of his stand.
He is the fortress against which
I have beaten myself;
the thorns of desire onto which
my heart has thrown itself.
I presumed that I knew his mind;
I thought I shared his pain.
I believed that I could heal him,
help him to love again.
But I've not the forces to breach
the stout stone around him,
nor have I the powers to heal
the wounds that torment him.
Too blind in my love to heed him,
I leapt into the fray;
I chose to ignore his warnings,
and thus........my tears today.
For the Scottish *******.....you know who you are.
