Chalumeau

Fiddle, whistle
castanet, clarinet
— every road leads to Hamelin
and down to the river.
Straining tunes
of glee, of childish delight
from where the brook roars.
A strain from a ditty, and now,
notes from the wrong register.
Chalumeau !
Such a strange word!
The piper was in the know.

Hop, skip — a beat —
down to the river
where the roar and the rush
profer deafening silences
— a silence for every kind of sorrow —
and freshwater to sweeten the tears.

The village listens now,
with disdain.
It will soon watch and
weep and glisten.