The Lost Words

The Thistle King enters and sits proudly on his throne
The cultivated courtiers gather aside him on the stones
'We assemble here to gift the King on this magical moon blessed night
For he who is fortuitously favoured will become a noble knight'

Meekly Sir Hawthorn slips across the shade
And bows low down
For the Thistle King's crown
Is the noblest in the moon lit glade

My lords and ladies, Sir Gorse and Sir Hop
I have a majestic gift for the King to add to your court full crop
It is a fact that these few years past I have been blessed by the gods
And here I show true
A gift from the blue
As he lifts his most tender rods

And nestled in his thorny limb
Sits the blackest most succulent fruit
Glistening and moist it shimmers
A perching orb so cute
A beautiful spherical bauble
Of dangling dog walkers motion
A 10oz brew of shimmering poo
It's hand picked canine love potion!

It's Caesar's best, and collected by his master
Then cast into the arms of Sir Hawthorns arbor
The dew glimmers brightly upon its skin
It is quite a fashionable offering

But Sir Briar is rustling
And making an awful kafuffle
'My lords' he says
'My Cultivars' he prays
That is but a trifle
‘Oh so proudly he parades
And swings his trophy about
But it is so clear
there are those of us here
Who don't have to shout.'

The Thistle King motions
'Step forth Sir Briar'

Sir Briar sidles slowly forth
Then with a flourish unwinds his thorns
With a pious smile and oodles of style
Looking intriguingly both sharp and forlorn

But on the tip of his upper most tendril
Are folds of delicate lacing
They shimmer so bright
As they catch the moon light
Where it dangles from its beauteous casing

Silence, shock and wonder
Over such treasures to behold
A bedazzling cassette tape hangs
From the good times of old

Such delicate spools,
With dew speckled coils
And all cast by the hands of the gods
Through out the glade, they approve the parade
And covert Sir Briars bedecked rods

Respect and awe is palpable
As it sweeps through the glen
But Sir Briar has more to show
As he draws back his thorny hem

And there to reveal a burgeoning bounty
A hoard to envy both ends of the county

Three gaudy pieces of a pink bathroom suite
A hod of asbestos sheeting all piled up in a heap
A brace of super strength cider cans
And rusting white fridge door
And three orange bollards
A no-parking sign
All provided by the law

Sir Briar neatly bows and leaves these prizes for the King
Smug in satisfaction that his gifts are just the thing
And each and every item touched by mortal hands
And everyone brought to his feet after travel from far off lands

The Thistle King then turns his gaze to wonder of Sir Hawthorn
'Do YOU have a better gift to lay upon my lawn?'

‘Why of course, my lord.' Sir Hawthorn says
as he sidles before Briars treasures
‘These gifts from the honourable Lord will give you many pleasures.
But please behold
from hands of old
something so stupendous
I bequeath to you
My lord so true
It is just too tremendous.'

Well the sphere from Caesar still remains
In plain sight for all to see
But now Sir Hawthorn lifts his arms
In wild ecstatic glee
And all about the earthly glade
The courtiers all can see
A crown so incredible
All jibe and jostle to see

Wafting from his timber limbs
Fly plastic bags from wheely bins
Rippling flowing like seaweed sacking
Broken blackened cellophane packing

It's ripping blackness is a dream
And the Teasels begin to faint
No cultivar has ever been so touched
By any mortal saints

At which he proudly unwinds the plastic
And lays it by the Kings feet

'My lord, I beseech thee
Look favourable on my store
For my gift has depth and witchery
Of ancient fairy law
When the visitors come to deliver Sir Briars volumous treasures
They never dally or delay, or seem easy at their leisures
But with the crown I lay before you
When you wear it you will see
Good people point and laugh and stare
Whilst out in the far country
The ramblers and bird twitchers stop
The plodders and picnickers
For these old plastic bags
Which joyfully snag
They call the witches knickers

The Duchess Dog Rose steps neatly forth
And gathers the gifted plastic
Then wraps it around the Thistle Kings crown
All agree it looks fantastic

The witches knickers
The witches knickers
All chant upon the glade
And the Thistle King rises majestically
For he is the noblest in the glade

And when the dawn begins to break
Across the Thistle Kings court
The day alights upon all the gifts
Which mortal hands have brought

So good visitors
As you leave the sprawl of town
And Sirs Briar and Sir Hawthorn
Thick and close around

Keep a sharp eye ready for the Thistle Kings miss-understood glory
Then shout and point
Witches knickers
For now you know the story