Wicker

Wicker

Down there in the valley,
the Wicker Man, he walks;
parades of lanterns rally,
and the Ticker Men, they talk

A noise lost in the background,
both ambient and loud;
with straw bundled in sacks, found,
and scarecrows standing proud

Lined up along the water,
the River Goyt is Sett;
'midst paraffin, they loiter,
lamps lit, as flames are met

Winding through the lost ground,
the mob, they mass below;
beneath an old and new town,
the wicker weaves and grows

Building to a semblance,
of normality, a mask;
weaved in a remembrance,
of times forgotton, past

A carnival of chaos,
a festival of flame;
ticks spoken on the wind, lost,
and wicks burned in his name

Candles from another time,
to light a world so changed;
reason lost in abstract rhyme,
wound, warped and rearranged

at a confluence of rivers,
a past and present drawn;
a future flames can give us,
as they run out with the dawn

Extinguished for another year,
yet embers, still, they burn;
despite a driving weir,
the wicker waits its turn

as spectral lanterns rally,
the Ticker Men still talk;
and down there in the valley
... the Wicker Man, he walks