Chet Nickerson

Wicker and Wood

Enter the King, raving.
Enter the Pope, gesticulating.
Enter the Midwife, foaming at the mouth.
The Mad Prince enters a Guilty Plea and hisses,
“Wicker and Wood! Wicker and Wood!”
Instantly, the Court screams, panics, and runs from the Royal Hall.
Variously, they draw swords, faint, or begin a St. Vitus Dance.
Forthwith, an Alarum is sounded.
Posthaste, the townsfolk flee to the Castle and the soldiers scurry to the Battlements.
The Invaders have been sighted, and they make no idle Threat.
They bring the Berserker Brothers, they have no Moral Code.
That night, the Pestilence strikes without warning or cause or reason.
Neither Saint nor Sinner nor Sentient Beast, not a one of them is safe.
The faceless hooded Monks chant without cessation.
The Engineer and his crew frantically re-engineer the Engines.
The Dragon flies from the Mountain and the Troll crawls from the Cave.
In his pointed tower the Wizard mutters and makes his Smokes, pungent and terrible.
Messengers sent forth return pale and wide-eyed, speaking in tongues.
In her chambers, the Queen embroiders without eating, oblivious to speech.
The Princess weeps and walks in her sleep, rubbing her belly and calling, “Bring out your dead!”
Meanwhile, the Byzantine fills the moat with Snakes.
The Populace crowds together to watch a chicken scratch in the Dirt.
The beating of the Drums continues.
The howling of the Wolves continues.
The flocking of the Crows continues.
For the fifth day, a great Fire continues to burn on the horizon.
The Smoke has filled the air and all Creatures gasp and shed tears.
The Sun burns blood red in a sky as dark as dusk.
The Sorcerer calls on Demons but the wrong ones appear.
The Priest calls on Angels and is tormented by a ringing in the ears.
He reads from the Scripture, tearing out each Page and washing it in Holy Water.
The Blessed Ink runs; the Penitent drink and sacrifice.
The Women clutch Knights in Arms and Babes in arms and together they know hunger.
There is a Terror, there is a trembling, there is a wailing and a gnashing of teeth.
There is a Babe on the Sea
and a Babe in a Tree
and these only,
these only,
are not crying.

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