A Lone Piper Stands

A lone Piper stands on the rise, the breeze swinging his kilt And flattening the patchy grass at his feet; below, Spread before him, the land slopes down to the silent river, Running deep, willows at its edge sighing softly as the evening Air caresses them. His plaintive lament hangs in the air, then echoes back from The escarpment beyond the silent stream; the ivory full Moon hangs low on the horizon, its pallid light haunting The landscape and his sad voice. The lament is for the fallen, brave heroes who broke their Mother’s heart in service to their country and the indifference Of Politicians and Generals alike. Yet also, its echoes are for all of us whose hearts are not mended And who grieve still for lost hope.