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A Halloween inspired Ode to a local haunt |
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 |