The Scarecrow

The old man proudly dressed him
In familiar, moth-eaten clothes
And tasked him to watch over the cornfield.

The scarecrow’s back, as straight as its rod.
He held his chin held high
And relished his grimace.

For a while it worked.
The crows mistook him for a man
And duly kept their distance.

He protected his turf
As the leaves turned brown and fell.
And as the farmer sowed, he tipped his cap
And smiled to his creation.

But winter came and the ground
Below him hardened.
The rain pelted upon him
Ceaselessly. And so he began
To sag.

One night an enterprising crow
Noticed his neglect.
She landed on his outstretched arm
And tore away at his cotton sleeve, revealing
That only straw lay beneath.

The others saw that they had nothing to fear.
No man stood in this no man’s land.
They came in droves and picked away at him
Sinew by sinew, until he was but a shadow
Of his former self.

Spring arrived but nothing grew
As the seeds were long gone.
Consumed the crows who thought of nothing
Beyond their insatiable appetite.

The old man looked upon
The empty sacks that he had once moulded
In his image.

The scarecrow looked back
With his black deadened eyes
And longed to say:
“I’m sorry.”