The Scarecrow

The scarecrow stood
amongst his field,
A sea of green
where good crops yield.

He watched and waited
as passing by,
Was the farmer's boy
who paid him no mind.

No one ever
heard the boys cry,
Nor learned quite how
the farmer had died.

But for many long years
the farm stood there,
Decaying and rotten
while all bewared.

The once green field
now and old dirt brown,
Like all the life
was taken and drowned.

But still the scarecrow
stood and watched,
Over it's land
from his old spot.

Until one day
a curious sight,
A fresh-faced man
from the others so unlike.

Had approached the old farmhouse
luggage in hand,
A city boy deciding
to buy this old land.

"Now I know
why it was so cheap,"
He said listening,
While the walls
of the old house creaked.

For many days
he worked and washed,
To repair the house
yet always felt watched.

But all he saw
out in the night,
Was the scarecrow
waiting in bright moonlight.

One night when city boy
was going to bed,
A thought occurred
that was left unsaid.

"What happened to the scarecrow
that stood in the field?"
An answer to which
the knocking door revealed....


No one heard
from city boy again,
the farm was left
as it had began.

The scarecrow stands amongst his field,
A land of fear where dark deeds yield.