Rhythms of the Night

I know the sound - or part of it - of old:
whisssstle-thwoom-pa (pause) whisssstle-thwoom-pa (pause)...
But this is more disturbing than I've known.

My father's practice swings beside the tee,
his driver sending shock waves through the air.
whissstle-thwummmm then silence from the follow-through.

But this is more persistent, rhythmic, more
the sound a scythe might make. A cutting down.
Grim Reapers spring to mind from story books.

If this was South America, you'd think
of gauchos whirling bolas round their heads
and listen for the crash the balls would cause.

But three nights on the trot with little sleep,
a reaper in the skies above our house -
though grim or not, depending on your view.

Even in the silences the ears strain
for the barely audible first sound,
the distant whistle of its slow return.

Spot on as Haley's Comet it returns
It is the major rhythm now, has drowned
out all those minor ones, like heart and sleep.

And so you notice as it fades again
a change to deeper tones of thwoooom-pa (pause).
It's cops in choppers reaping close to us.

This poem was written in response to dVerse Poet's Pub prompt to write a piece of onomatopoeic poetry, something of which, unwisely perhaps, I have always fought shy in the past. I know some of the greats have used it with outstanding success, but then the greats can do anything. What about us more humble mortals, though? I'd really love to hear what you guys think.