Night Piper

Photo ©Ewan McIntosh

Into a random dream, only half-remembered,

dances the noise of -

God, it’s pipes! And it’s

three am and I’ve been sleeping but

I leap from my bed and look 

out and there they are: a man, 

pipes shouldered, marching along

the sleeping crescent playing 

his heart out. And it’s not just the old

Scotland the Brave stuff but

an intricate shifting pattern of notes

and he’s good, good, but

far too loud for my wincing brain.

In front of this marching kilt 

five figures dance

yes, dance,

keeping time as they

make their way past the

dark houses which seem

like me not to have welcomed them

with lights, but they don’t care.

Light on their feet and lightly

rhythmic they pass on and the music sounds

more and more distant as the night 

folds back and sleep floods over

the vacant echoes of the town.

©C.M.M.

This happened on the only weekend of the year when such things are, in fact, normal - Cowal Games weekend. The poem actually suggested itself to me as I was drifting back to sleep, but I've taken almost a week to get round to putting it down.