A lone man stands, dressed in a Scotch kilt,
playing bagpipes, pouring whiskey over a grave.
A moon casts shadows of dancing clouds,
music ambles drunk with sorrow.
He stands desolate, like a tree on a vengeful African Savanna,
prominent, eerie, petrified, alone.
His footprints leave a mark standing on freshly laid sod.
A playful wind defiantly blows his auburn red hair.
A forgiving Sun crowns his head,
as light washes his face against a cobalt blue sky.
This chalk-white man is turning blood red,
as his cheeks rise blowing on his bagpipes.
Quickly his fingers move as if he were playing a piano concerto.
The music is triumphant, not belligerent, fills pensive air like a motet.
Sweet, holy music hovers over a city of the dead.
Now he is trembling in grief,
as glorious music reached a dominant piercing pitch.
A Hallelujah moment!
A lone man stands, dressed in a Scotch kilt,
playing bagpipes, pouring whiskey over a grave.
As a moon casts shadows of dancing clouds,
music ambles drunk with sorrow.
by Vincent J. Tomeo