On Spying the Fiddler Atop the Hill

Upon a morning, mid-March time, still cold

And dank throughout, there was a figure which stood

Lean and slight, silhouetted against the bold

Moon. He was arranged in a strange way, like wood

Marionettes before they dance majestic.

He held in ruse his weapon silent, should

Anything come to strikes. With a slow flick

Of his image he raised to his chin a small

Crafted fiddle, just as the rains began, quick

And driving. Yet the fiddler moved not. The thrall

A pouring droplets bombarded him. And yet

The fiddler moved not. The cascading rainfall

Drenched and fed the ground. And yet still, the wet

Fiddler moved not. Now he began to stir.

He pranced about the hilltop, seeming set

On madness. His hands became possessed, the blur

Of notes which ensued were devil fuelled and fire

Scorched hot the strings. The rain lashed on to transfer

The sound of music to that of drowning mire,

But the fiddler went and played on, back and back

Across the mound. The tones were smooth, the dire

Plunging dewdrops echoed loss, faded awrack

And so the music slowed too. When all was calm’d

The fiddler turned toward the moon behind, black-

Bordered and smiling, and bent and bowed disarm’d.

  ©Daegal