I AM THE WICKERMAN

There’s not many men left
who still have the skill
to shape my absolute form.
My creator, crafting in wood sculpture
worked for months to make me complete.
Each willow stick used to form this body.
Muscles, arms, thighs…limb by limb.
He reminded me how to grow
out of the earth from the hills.
I was earth, mother-god before
pagans were named.

I am solid and strong and defiant.
I rate highly in power and growth.
I am made from the wood of this planet.
Look at me, at my huge limbs and torso.
Men have sculpted my birth.
Now I shout at the hills and the country.
Rising up in a lucid belief.
Be with me and I’ll watch over nature.
Don’t betray me or I will avenge.

But now I feel fear and foreboding.
Was I made to star in this theatre?
Now I know
Not for me is the long running show.
For tonight there is fire and torches.
Shrouded figures their faces aglow.
The crowd shout 'burn, burn the Wickerman.'
They delight in my plight don’t they know.
As the flames lick and play on my
thighs, breast and arms.
A sacrifice stretching way back.
Like the witches, melted flesh at the stake.
And watchers lusting for blood, flame and fire.

Now I am done, my body has fallen.
My ashes will ripen the land.
Not for me is the power and the glory.
I have fallen at mans' wicked hand.