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
