My leather scrapbook with full pages-
photography in black and white
and information- dates and ages
encourage tears I wish to fight.
The strangers stood in formal pictures
Their faces sternly poised in strictures
My Scott maternal, Irish roots-
at farmhouses, they pose in suits.
But lit with eyes aglow and smiling-
the people's faces I miss most.
My memory, the only ghost,
like blanket lost, my thoughts beguiling.
cigarette smoke and sips of wine,
like crutches, help me to be fine.