Monday, May 29, 2006

On Spying The Fiddler Atop The Hill

Upon a morning, mid-March time, still cold
And dank throughout, there was a figure which stood
Lean and slight, silhouetted against the bold
Moon. He was arranged in a strange way, like wood
Marionettes before they dance majestic.
He held in ruse his weapon silent, should

Anything come to strikes. With a slow flick
Of his image he raised to his chin a small
Crafted fiddle, just as the rains began, quick

And driving. Yet the fiddler moved not. The thrall
A pouring droplets bombarded him. And yet
The fiddler moved not. The cascading rainfall

Drenched and fed the ground. And yet still, the wet
Fiddler moved not. Now he began to stir.
He pranced about the hilltop, seeming set

On madness. His hands became possessed, the blur
Of notes which ensued were devil fuelled and fire
Scorched hot the strings. The rain lashed on to transfer

The sound of music to that of drowning mire,
But the fiddler went and played on, back and back
Across the mound. The tones were smooth, the dire

Plunging dewdrops echoed loss, faded awrack
And so the music slowed too. When all was calm’d
The fiddler turned toward the moon behind, black-

Bordered and smiling, and bent and bowed disarm’d.


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