Out of the mist he came.
Not the droplets of morning dank,
but the tinge of time, bringing
with him the skirling of the pipes,

mourning of the marsh reed.
Dim at first, in sight and sound,
his Tartan red and bonnet black
filled the pixels cross our vision

as the wraith of fate always does
just before it points its fleshless finger
and raises the maul to deliver
the message of the Sisters Three.

Crashing down, it alters lives.
The piper’s skirls or trillings blare,
so that even blind men know
whether dealt was fair or fetid fate.

This was chilling, not
a trilling, warning sure
of something wicked waxing.
Out of the mist he came.

And into the mist he went.
We think we know the past.
Yet, we murmured into time
have mercy on us, please.