Piper At The Gates Of Dawn (Poetry)

The piper at the gates plays thin and high
his notes pure flights of fancy haunt the air
far-distant — a melodic sob and sigh
that wavers while night’s shadows linger there.

A creature of the mist — his race unknown —
a timeless myth his music touches all
who hear it — by the faintest breezes blown
and whispering through sleep’s receptive wall.

The spirit listens — older than all years
and harkens to the message — understands
the litany as light from dark appears —
Dawn conjured by the piper’s matchless hands.

The spell is spun — Day weaves itself among
the hills and forests — pushes darkness back
and echoes fade — a half-remembered song
whistling down an ancient woodland track

as over the horizon hauls the sun
and mist dissolves — likewise the piper too —
his solo played and daily duty done
he disappears into the dazzling blue.