Highland Clearance - edit

[dukealien]

edit1;

I heard a bagpipe chorus just last night–
its droning parts, at least, resounded there
in key of G, not fuzzy-pure or bright
but fitting for a highland sunset air.

These being U.S. hills, they’re mechanized:
Hispanic laborers each shouldering
his racket-buzzing blower, deputized
to blast cut grass from walks that evening.

Their melody – did I parse notes to groans
or hear those workers' efforts and transpose
to music from their engines' lilting moans?
Who cares? It passed my time to night’s repose.

---

Thanks to both critics, and delighted to see you both back - with fine critiques for a rather silly poem.

I've made changes to sort of address the criticisms (in particular, to eliminate translaTED).  Hope they add some interest to the middle stanza.

@ambrosial - I think I've got the verb tenses whipped into shape.

@just mercedes - hope the change to zap that ill-stressed translat-ed didn't mess up the ending too much.  Speaking of which, no final couplet because this can't be a sonnet - no romantic interest  .

@both - concerning the title

Yes, I was thinking of the highland clearances after the '45 - which that pistol-for-pipers p.s. suggests at least one of you was on the winning side of.  A bit wicked, true.  But are pistols allowed in the People's Republic of Scotland these days?  Are little black stocking knives, even?

Just returned from a vacation through the purportedly plague-ridden South again.  People masked with a shrug.  Personally, I had a week's medical emergency of an embarrassing and painful nature, but all's well now.  Probably.  Got some poems out of it - better than this, too.