the strawman
he juts and peers out across the dusk,
crucified and hanging; his straw bleeds out,
his world is a field where he is centre stage,
like a god, like a judge and jury he’ll preside.
doom comes as a red hue turns to black,
and an undulating pulse of ebony flies in,
unable to shift from sentry, with rigid back,
he watches swoops and dives; clouds begin.
then before him sits and stops his foe,
his enemy as if in the act of mocking,
draws a line in the field of corn,
steadfast, it holds firm its taunting.
its eyes dark, of nuances both soft and bold,
wavering pleats of the crows dictate,
flooded skies swell with flapping thoughts,
waiting valiant; the crow belies his fate.
calm in its subversive subtlety, sovereignty,
the scarecrows dour heart sings its herald,
the crow stands tall to fly away a victor,
he knows now the scarecrows just a strawman.
