On the Trail of the Wickerman

Summerisle

What has happened here?

Why are the cottages shuttered,

the streets primed for tumbleweed?

Where are the zimmers, 

the folk carrying parcels of fish,

the kids drumming on fences,

the men and women walking back

leaden footed from work?

Only the offices to prevent

rural depopulation are open,

their computer screens flickering

madly behind half closed blinds.

I am waiting for these small villages 

by the sea to regenerate, 

like in some film,

to be born of flame,

and while I do, public art sprouts

above me,

huge and mysterious like alien pods.