Battlepipes
by Don Lanigan
Hush! I hear a windborne strain,
In falling weather through the rain,
A distant, quavering refrain,
The reedy whine of the pipes.
What pixilated piper this,
Who blows into the swirling mist?
I dare say something is amiss,
From the importune of the pipes.
The clans are forming up again,
Wending south, into my ken,
Mustering able-bodied men,
To the battle call of the pipes.
An ad hoc army passing through,
Some with woad dye, farded blue,
With battle scars and snake tattoos,
Impelled by the drive of the pipes.
Soft in focus through fog they come,
Strumming harps and drumming drums,
Marching toward Pandemonium,
Following after the pipes.
Demonic hardware they possess,
For crushing bone and ripping flesh.
Armored with ox-hide shields and vests,
They honor the call of the pipes.
Scavenger crows have found the throng,
Circling aloft they trail along,
Sensing a carrion feast erelong,
Drawn by the lure of the pipes.
The Romans loom across the field,
In war-hedge junction of their shields,
Brandishing their lethal steel,
Enraged by the arrogant pipes.
Massed legions march in symmetry,
With disciplined geometry,
At the fore of the awesome cavalry,
In disdain of the impudent pipes.
With rank and file stacked deep and wide,
The quiddity of Caesar’s pride
Advances with a cadenced stride,
Toward the chantered mock of the pipes.
The Scotic scheme is not so fine,
Frontal assault is their design,
Into the thick of the enemy line,
Headlong, with the howl of the pipes.
Lick-for-leather, the foe engages.
Round and square the slaughter rages.
Soul-wraithes slip their carnal cages,
In the banshee bedlam of the pipes.
Once joined, the game is plain to see,
Either I kill them or they kill me,
Who kills the best takes victory.
That’s the secret of the pipes.
The steadfast clans defend their homes,
And put to flight the Aquila of Rome,
Then fade away into the gloam,
With the glee-dream of the pipes.
Devil’s smiles beam through heavy skies,
On ashen cadavers with bird-picked eyes,
Random bestrewn, screaming silent cries,
Chiming in with the plaint of the pipes.
I’ve lived to learn this deadly day
The full purport of what’s in play.
Now I’ll not be so keen to join the foray
Next comes the beck of the pipes.