The Wicker

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The village is nestled where old forests weep,

And promises made are promises to keep.

We live by the harvest, the soil, and the sun,

And the rites that must happen when summer is done.

They call for a guardian, a sentinel sworn,

To stand in the fields and protect the new corn.

They call him the Scarecrow, a title of grace,

And this was the year that they called out my face.

It started with feasting, with cider and bread,

They wove wreaths of barley and placed on my head.

They said I was chosen, a blessing, a boon,

To stand ever watchful beneath the pale moon.

But the morning came after, I felt something wrong,

My joints had all stiffened, my shadow was long.

A splinter of wood seemed to push from my skin,

A strange, rustling feeling was stirring within.

My wife tried to help me, her face pale with dread,

She pulled at my arm and found straw there instead.

My fingers grew rigid, they curled into claws,

My voice became raspy, a dry caw of caws.

My bones are now timber, my sinews are twine,

This body I lived in is no longer mine.

They dressed me in rags and they stitched on a grin,

The change from without is completing within.

They carry me out to the field’s highest mound,

And drive my feet deep in the sanctified ground.

I cannot cry out and I cannot resist,

My eyes are two buttons half-lost in the mist.

I watch as the villagers walk back to town,

As the first hungry crow comes circling down.

My vow is my curse and my flesh is my cell,

A permanent, whispering, harvest-tide hell.