Dawn’s Piper

Spring beckons in Arcadia

vernal equinox

zero point of sidereal time

maybe of time itself


demic* in his appearance

has put down his pipes

There is to be no playing

for the apocalypse

Too riveting it’s gaze

even for a God

who has seen it all before

Too mesmerising its own song

as it whistles nonchalantly

into each isolated nightmare

Whipping away

the veneer of security

the thin veil of believed control

the door to the abyss

how to sit with chaos




the end of life as we knew it?

book your online class now!

limited space

virtual connection is the new real

or is it?

beneath the covid hum

beneath the chatter of our times

beneath the wheel of life’s turning

is it we only who are crushed?

perhaps it is life itself that is flattened

a levelling of the land on a scale never witnesssed before

wry smiles from the ghots of Walwyn, Overton, Lilburne and Prince.

in all endings a beginning

Kali Yuga sees and seeds a future unknown but possible


for some

here in the eerie silence of metropolis the wind can now be heard

there is a sound of breath landing in the body of the planetary family

a sigh so deep it echoes a collective memory

a recognition

a knowing

a connection

a family

death will take some and indiscriminately too

but a hope is being murmered here on the land

a song of faith

of trust

of goodness

of us

darkest hours and dawns

can we?

The pipes the pipes are calling.

Written for the prompt at Earthweal


demic (not comparable)

  1. (rare) Of or pertaining to a distinct population of people
  2. (ecology) Of or pertaining to a deme
  3. (dialect) Dysfunctional; broken

5 thoughts on “Dawn’s Piper

  1. earthweal says:

    Pan is dancing in the pandemonium, shrill on the pipes of pandemic … He is oddly paired with nightmare and masturbation, sweeps wide in the panorama and has a fine nose for panties. Our rustic rube of a primal cousin, satyring and satirizing the mess all at once. An ancient Roman writer thought he heard a voice: “Great Pan is dead” — but you never know where the lil’ bugger is wont to suddenly waken with an uproar. Priapus was his son and wardened gardens — nailing the bums of garden thieves with a phallus big as a donkey’s: I can’t help but think he’s sent pandemic our way for poaching the wild one too many times. Goosing us where it hurts most. I love the dancing here, the beat and thrum of what is and inside of that. Great to see it and you at earthweal. Stay well, keep dancing — Brendan

  2. Sherry Marr says:

    “There is to be no playing for the apocalypse”. Awesome. Lovely to read you, Paul. “How to sit with chaos”……….by now, I am well used to acceptance of what is, so much we cant control. I note that “hope is being murmured on the land” – as skies clear. Will we emerge from this more enlightened? I do hope so. I hear those pipes playing.

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