Return of the Wicker Man

There are no more wicker men,

no more straw.

Fit to beg for the sweets,

but the sugar’s all raw.

So far the rain

has kept the fire at bay,

so we have no sacrifice today.


Old bones held up

the old bell tower.

Ashes to ashes,

wheat into flour.

Breaking the land

broke a man like a coward.

Shot them in the back

when they ran.


Joints that have turned

hard as we earned.

Backs never snapped,

straw never burned.

Old Wicker Man just watched

as we yearned

for the wheel to roll,

for the seasons to turn.


Stone for a head,

bent willows for a heart,

sawed logs for his legs,

split some for his arms.

Wicker man waiting

for the rain to stop,

so we can burn our fear

and harvest our crop.


Someone has to give

the old Wicker Man a soul.

The old ones

don’t hear the woods burn alone.

Sweep those ashes

and stack those bones

in the old bell tower,

call the old boys home.


Who’s gonna call the Wicker Man?

Who’s gonna bring him back?

Who’s gonna be the heart and the soul

of the fire,

of the wood,

of the past?


HG – 2017

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