The crowd knows the tradition’s patched - a 90’s revival stretched to feel ageless,
past darned to match by the planners. But still
we cheer as a reeling thing in reeds is born
again, and flails the air with January limbs.

Frail monster. It’s really dancing now - a Lord of Misrule in cones of straw,
and when the loose-bound hay blows wide 
I see the face beneath the slats.

What does the driver feel inside? Last year’s Bear quoted in the souvenir: 
“Once the bear takes over (and the bear does take over) you don’t think about the cold.” 

But does he think about the heat? On Saturday the harvest god dances, but on Sunday he’s burnt to applause.
Does the driver face a part of himself when they burn the bear in his clothes?

About the author:

Daniel Whitelock lives in South London, where he writes about transformation, ritual and perception. His poems tend to begin elsewhere: among grasses, under scaffolding, or at the edges of water.

Feature image by Ahmed Hossam on Unsplash