Scarecrow

(June 1971)



Erect upon the simple frame

of my wooden cross,

I exist,

the epitome of things discarded;

clothes

green with the repeated questionings

of mist and hail

hat

bleached by the sun's laughter,

boots

weary from spud-picking muddy fields.

Veteran of never-ending wars,

propped between ploughed field

and cloud-furrowed sky,

my thoughts are straw.




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