His old flask sits upon the windowsill,
like a lost dog looking for it’s owner.
Tartan skin reflected in broken glass,
painted steel glistening in the sunshine.
Foolhardy in all that you ever were,
sanctified with a gift for a poor choice.
Walking the frost laden Lockerbie hills,
your final, irreversible mistake.
So I’ll fill this withered tartan old flask,
pour us both a drink, cups of tea for two.
Toast the memories that you left behind,
scorn the choices of a life you squandered.
2 comments:
Loving the site my friend, very arty, who designed it?
The background is a standard one, the rest is me !!
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