The Haunted Pipers of Heatherford Faire

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

There is one war left to fight for one resisting piper.

Photos (c) Pexels

There are twenty some odd pipers of Heatherford Faire,

and one brooding recluse in an old rocking chair.

They were born in sad hollows where unlovely things creep,

and they play on black pitchpipes that never do sleep.

 

One Heatherford piper piping one haunted tune,

twenty dead soldiers charging one unnamed dragoon.

Such were the things witnessed at Heatherford Faire,

when autumn came stalking and haunted the air.

One Heatherford piper hides up in the hills,

and readies the ramparts and gathers the tills.

One piper stands by on one mounted steed,

with twenty-two ghosts all dressed in black tweed.

 

One battle-wearied recluse who lives alone in a shack,

and for one hundred years has held the war drums back.

One cane-wielding bugler playing one well-worn tune,

now ancient the war-call on one withering moon.

The pipers had come many times long before,

they had rattled their drums and beat at the door.

They had beckoned and reckoned like beasts hungered sore,

and vowed never to leave until they had finished their score.

 

Twenty haunted pipers of Heatherford Faire storming the night fields

on steeds made of nightmares, with ebony swords and emerald shields.

One recluse from a window, with one rusted gun, unleashes a cannon of thundering blood.

Twenty pipers come down from the ghostly, old hills to pillage and ruin with malice and flood.

 

One torrid old rocker, one hickory-stained, with grimace and gothic the bugler plays

with one lonely pitchpipe, a warring old tune, and twenty odd pipers upon which to gaze.

Twenty haunted pipers of Heatherford Faire that follow the night-lark and frighten the stairs,

and one phantom hermit who sleeps in the fields, and swings on the wind, and carries his wares.

 

There are twenty some odd pipers of Heatherford Faire,

and one brooding recluse in an old rocking chair.

They were born in sad hollows where unlovely things creep,

and they play on black pitchpipes that never do sleep.


Submitted: July 30, 2021

© Copyright 2021 L.E. Belle. All rights reserved.

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Comments

LE. Berry

Love this haunting piece L.E.

Fri, July 30th, 2021 9:39pm

Author
Reply

Thank you. I worked pretty hard on this one, but I always have trouble setting to paper the things I see and hear in my mind. :)

Fri, July 30th, 2021 2:44pm

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