“The Pipes” by Aedan Cushman Reynolds

‘Ere the sun rose one fine autumn day
‘Fore the sun could whisk the dew away
A piper played across the glen,
And o’er the top went the highland men.

In rows by rows they marched proud
Ignoring all the horrific sounds
Of bullets and shells whizzing by
And the screams of those who slowly die

Still they marched on and on
All under the morning Sun.
Till by mid-day there was no sound
But the cries of men who lay on the ground.

And what of our piper who stood the tide?
A blood stained sash lay by the side.
Of a man who once played for the highland men
Ne’er more to be seen again.

Posted on May 4, 2018, in Poetry Spring 2018. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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