Scarecrow

Scarecrow

He has no memory of his making

Or how he came to be here

Staked to his fixed position

In the middle of this muddy field

His face set North towards the trees 

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do

Or the purpose of his existence

Except to watch and wait

Through the clearest starry nights

The cold and frost biting at his fingers

And the long and lonely days

The Sun burning into his staring eyes

And bleaching pale his tattered clothes 

He cannot move, nor look around

But must stand here, arms outstretched

Alone and forever crucified

His ragged hat and jacket

Flapping in the breeze

Silhouetted against the sky

Stark, dark, and solitary 

His few unbid companions

Contemptuous of his looming figure

Casting its slowly-moving shadow

Across the fertile furrows

Boldly walk quite close

Huge black birds that croak and squawk

As they gorge themselves

Upon the seeds and shoots 

Perhaps, if he had any feelings

He would pity them

In their fight to feed themselves

Scratching out their existence

From upon the earth beneath his feet 

The weather slowly wears him down

Rotting the stuffing of his guts

Which slowly falls away

Vermin-nibbled

And is picked and pecked

To form good nesting material

So that other creatures may be warm

And live another day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012