The Raising Of The Trickster

 

When the western sky turns slowly into the colour of an old bruise

And the last orange streaks of daylight bleed from the setting sun

A cold white vapour swirls through the fields of corn its fingers prising apart the stalks

As the lands of Albion darken and strange noises start to crawl from the mist.

 

At the edge of the fields there sprawls a verdant forest

and there at its very heart sits an ancient gallows tree

The lost shadow of the long-gone rope has stained the earth beneath its boughs

where dead men are cut down and buried in unconsecrated ground

 

This is where the Council Of Magyk meet on the shortest night of midsummer

They discuss the business of the fey and make ready their preparations for the autumn slow death

This, too, is where the crows first tell of the coming of the walking man

And the prophecy that travels with him of death, rebirth and corruption.

 

A hushed silence falls across the gathering of witches, sages and gentle folk

For they know that this visitor sullies the true blood of the natural world

He is an abomination – a harbinger of dark forces and  harsh winters

They know he will bring death and destruction in his dragging footsteps

 

And so – they hire the services of a trickster

A raven who will walk with the dark lord

And whisper in his ear promises of redemption

Which themselves will mask the true nature of deception

 

For if the scarecrow touches the remnants of the fallen

And steals from them their gold and silver adornments

His soul will be cursed and in that cursing will hide his downfall

And the spell, cast to enable his cycle of rebirth, will be broken

 

As the full moon rises above the trees

Their incantations can be heard in the towns and villages

The sound of mother nature weeping and wailing

The sound of new born hope