Remembering Uncle John, By Stevenson Findlay

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER JOHN FINDLAY
BLACK SHEEP
I am The Black Sheep of my family. Why I am,
I never really knew. Although I half suspect at times it’s true.
But still it seems a bit of a mystery The things that keep me so are hard to see;
Not concrete facts, like one and one make two, But subtleties, that scarcely came, but grew
Enough to send me over the hill and sea. Of course I am not understood, For when
I try to stammer what my reasons are Before the questioning of sober man I am not clear, as if my thoughts were afar.
And though at times I cry before I sleep, I’m rather proud the folks call me Black Sheep