The scarecrow died on Christmas day.
I watched them tear his clothes away,
eviscerate his straw and throw
it out across the pallid snow
to form a mangled straw-bouquet.
I didn't help, but didn't say
a word to stop their savage play.
But standing by was murder too, and so
the scarecrow died
that day. The tangled shreds of hay
he bled accused me where they lay.
A dagger wind began to blow
the scarecrow's faded shirt to no
man's land — but I still know the way
the scarecrow died.