Of the long field,
Rested a doll made of straw.
Spindly twine tied together,
This man,
Whose sole worth,
Was to scare feather.
He would watch as crow,
Swooped low,
On approach to his tall grass field,
And they would pull back,
Scared by some… thing,
And defeat they would yield.
All the night,
An imagined trip cross the sky blue,
Then he would drift back,
To his place of standing,
Still wishing it would come true.
Then into the field came a girl.
No older than fifteen years pass,
She waded her way to the man of straw,
Through the thick of the tall long grass.
And she asked him a question.
‘Dear scarecrow, my friend,
What is it you dream?
I watch you from the window,
I hear your scream,
Like you wake from a nightmare,
Something so bad,
Tell me how to help you,
So you are not sad…”
The scarecrow's head,
Hung as low as it could,
Still restricted by the fact,
It was sewed around wood.
‘Not a nightmare, dear girl,
But a loss of a dream,
When I realise I’m here,
I let out a scream,
How I long to fly,
Free and above,
I’d sooner die,
Then never know love…’
And the girl had an idea.
She picked some grass,
The reeds so tall,
And wrapped them around,
The scarecrow tight.
Creating a wall of corn,
To mask his face,
And cover his scared look,
The scarecrow fright.
She hugged him goodbye,
Then ran and hid,
Watched on as the birds,
Once again came his way,
And they did land,
Upon him.
They pecked and they picked,
And they pulled him apart,
They tore out the straw,
Formed to make his heart,
And they flew far away,
Some clutching his head,
And the scarecrow lived free,
Before he was dead.
He died soon after,
A smile on his face,
For no matter his end,
He had left his place,
And he had realised,
And accomplished his dream,
So that when he died,
He no longer did scream.