Tin Whistle – a poem

A toy tin whistle there,
Useless, lies untouched,
Six holes in a metal tube,
Until, a magician came.
Strong arms, bearded face,
Dancing eyes, bewitching hands,
Jumping to those hands the whistle lives,
Singing, moaning, making music,
Grabbing beauty from the air.

Awakened, the house responds,
Commanding notes seeking everywhere.
We approach, as to the Pied Piper,
Mesmerized by the mournful sound,
Sitting spellbound as the whistle sings.
A group of people, suddenly as one,
Held by elfin whistle in musician’s hand,
To listen, and to hear that pipe,
Speak as two remaining one.

Then, putting down the pipe, he goes,
Leaving a hint of mystic in his wake,
A discarded pipe, trying hard to sing,
Weakly reforming notes into a theme,
But, bereft of power reverting to silence,
Music lingering on bewitches the building,
Scrapes captured notes from our minds,
To burst in the hall, vaporize and die
Leaving us a toy tin whistle and a memory.