Stuck rigid on his stick, he stands,
scraggly hat and a head full of straw -
blank button eyes stare straight ahead,
never blinking, seeing nothing
arms stretched out to endless fields -
Wrapped up in some beggar’s clothes,
(dungarees and checkered top)
he hopes to pass for a man -
he’ll watch for crows
and ward them off,
with stupid grin and flailing hands.
The birds, wary at first, grow wise -
they are not long fearful.
Some scout the skies, as others spy,
heads cocked mockingly to side
scrutinising all with beady black eyes -
they’ll not be took for fools.
‘Kwrah Kwrah’ the harbringer calls -
the crows all sing discordant,
calling, cackling from the trees.
The scarecrow, oblivious, will watch the wheat
as circling high in swollen sky -
a mass of black and beating wings
and they descend, descend as one,
peck at arms and perch on head,
picking stitch and thread undone. Crippled now,
he can’t defend, whirling on his useless stick,
as arms fall flacid to his side -
the crows withdraw, take cover, hide
and flung to air, his insides fly,
whoosed hard out of his belly,
in a whirlwind of dirt and straw.
All that is left, some clothes on a peg,
sagging arms and a sack of no more -
stupid grin of drooping head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.