The treacle-eating Boggart is extremely seldom spied
He shies away from normal folk - their smell he can't abide.
Their lying tongues can boil his blood, he knows their words deride,
so deep below, in boggart holes, he tends to bolt and hide.
The treacle is the reason that their views are not aligned,
for men laid claim to nature's bounty, taking all they found.
From 'neath the hill down snaking tunnels, jewelled chunks were mined,
and processed in the village kitchens - treats of every kind.
Whilst mines provided sweet delights and spicy drinks aplenty,
the lowly Boggart was forgot by workers and the gentry.
Greedily, they claimed their prize until the mine was empty
'till generations long had passed, one hundred years and twenty.
Yet all this time, in quiet preparation, Boggart waited;
a complex maze beneath the hillside, slowly recreated.
He made a map, which faithfully he marked and kept updated,
until at last, a spring he found - the Boggart was elated!
The spring gave birth to viscous streams which slowly pooled to make,
a gooey pond, a sticky cave, a dark and treacley lake.
His secret he guarded closely, for he didn't want to wake,
the memories of man, who would, his treasure surely take.
But slowly, surely, as it must, it seeped up to the surface,
until one day it bubbled out - a sticky epidermis.
Thus Boggart, forced to leave his hole, was singular in purpose -
to stem the flow, for if discovered his treacle mine was worthless.
If he was seen and recognised he'd sure as sure be followed,
for legend still reminded folk of treacle in the hollows.
A Boggart in the open... and the villagers would know;
they'd hunt him down and find his mine - his home and work exposed.
He left at dusk as night drew in and stayed among the shadows,
and traced the leak, a bubbling pool, to a corner of the meadow.
With tools and rocks he'd ferried there - transported in his barrow,
the spring was plugged - for now at last - and his the only know-how.
But unbeknown, a local lad was camped beside the church,
and when he saw the creature pass his stomach gave a lurch.
He'd quoted village folklore and his words had been besmirched,
and now he vowed to find the mines, from this day he would search.
As years went by the flow was stemmed and kept safe underground,
in caves and tunnels far and wide through every hill and mound.
One day, distracted by his work, and deaf from gurgling sounds,
the Boggart failed to see a shape emerge from sticky ground.
The lad stood silent and observed the strange and eerie sight
of a treacle covered creature, not quite elf or imp or sprite.
With spiky hair and shoulders broad, and squat - with little height,
it's big flat feet and muscled arms assured him of his plight.
But, with a breath he stood up tall, and found his voice to say,
"Hello, I'm William of Wiswell, and I think I've lost my way."
The Boggart turned in disbelief, his thoughts in wild array;
his worst of fears had happened, causing deep and dark dismay.
The Boggart roared, the lad took flight, but couldn't catch his stride;
the slick of treacle caught him fast and caused his feet to slide.
And as the monster fast approached the boy broke down and cried,
his courage gone, bravado quashed, heroic aims belied
The Boggart picked him up and stood him upright on his feet,
his eyes were sad, his head hung low, his misery complete.
He feared his secret now was known, the treacle would deplete;
the men would come and mine it all to make their tasty treats.
The Boggart told the boy his fears, he'd nothing left to lose:
How long ago, the men had mined - with greed - and overused!
How he had worked to save the mines, once more to flow and ooze,
to recreate the treacle mines, their sweet and tasty brews.
The boy concurred, a plan was made, the two would work together;
to mine the treacle fairly to be enjoyed by all, forever.
And from that day, the Sabden folk would always have the pleasure
of treacle, sweets and ginger beer, a privilege they'd treasure.
And as for Will of Wiswell and the Boggart - they stayed friends,
and knew that on each other they could certainly depend.
The entrance to the mines remains a secret well defended,
whilst the Boggart - still elusive - lives his treacley life, contented.
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