The Last Scarecrow (Poetry)

Out in the winter fields he stands forlorn
his ragged coat flaps thinly with each gust
straw hat askew, check trousers hanging torn
rotted through in turn by sun and frost.

The face he had is aged beyond repair
eyes washed-out-empty where the rain has run
a few remaining tangled strings of hair
still cling, although his nose and mouth are gone.

Whatever use he was, it’s truer now to say
he doesn’t scare the crows — instead they sit
along his skinny arms most every day
and caw complaints, or tug his straw a bit.

If he’d a name, it’s lost to years long-past.
Too old to work — redundant and distressed
come the next storm it’s certain he won’t last.
Meanwhile, he lingers — haunting — dispossessed.