A Lament Poem by Cleveland W. Gibson

It started with the stutter of a squeaky, wonky gate;
turned into the faintest strain of music ever played
on bagpipes by a Scottish Highlander who marched,
red faced with a gold medal of courage on his chest.
He played the pipes louder but nothing could stop it
stalking or a shimmering between the weeping trees
until it met the shadows black, and, like a kite, lifted
with the breeze. Back it came snarling like a beast
out of Hell, to tear along rocky valleys and then
to chase frightened deer. No pause, instead it invaded
gypsy camps to scatter ashes into the eye of the storm.
Like a fallen angel it lifted itself to the roof of Heaven
to shake the fabric with might, asking God to answer why?
God never ducked the question and back His answer came
in silence, louder than thunder or the lash of torrential rain
until it became faint as if a demon had swallowed its soul.
And the lament started again, and would never stop as pain
filled that soul of a mother who had lost her son in an instant.
So she screamed her son was now no more. Again silence.
The wind... listened...animals... sighed... so did you listen too?