A Scotish Heart

He did not ride upon a white charger. That's why I didn't reconise him by sight. For his charger was a beat up truck. Now, who'd have gussed he was a knight. His armor was a blue shirt and jeans. No kilt to tell his Scotish birth. Only his firey hair, Scotish burr, And his feel for things of the earth. Yet the highland magic is in his touch. The distant isle, clouds his blue eyes. Even when he's holding me close, It's like he gazes at distant skies. He calls me his little wood sprite. The forest seems to bring him ease. Sometimes the call of home is stronger. I know one day, he will leave. How can I just let him go? I know what we have is from the heart. Yet my path has always been cut in stone. As the blood of my ancestors calls to blood. I have always been searching for something, Dreaming always of distant lands. Yet I seem to have always been traveling, In the one direction, towards this man. Do I take the pleasure offered? Worry only later about the cost? Just love him with heart soul and body, To later live in darkness at his loss. I guess I have always known the answer. Just love him until it's time for us to part. Then don't listen to my jumbled feelings, Just listen closely to the messager of my heart. Written January 8th, 2002 © on Jan 08 2002 08:35 AM PST, Phyllis Thompson   18 • 0 • 8