The Scarecrow

The Scarecrow

The moon hung low and still
Over the misty hill
Scarecrow stood alone
In the evening chill
His shadow stretched forlorn
Over the rustling corn
Scarecrow stood alone
A purpose to fulfil

The wind was an eerie moan
Over the fence of stone
Scarecrow, he moved not
Though the field was all his own
His rags were stuffed with straw
Which filled his heartless core
Scarecrow, he moved not
Like one of flesh and bone

The footprints, they looked new
In the sparkling dew
Scarecrow could not see
The darkened trail they drew
His eyes were empty holes
That burned like blackened coals
Scarecrow could not see
The footprints left no clues

In the village near
Little children dear
Scarecrow on the hill
Filled them all with fear
They knew that on the morn
Another would be gone
Scarecrow on the hill
In the rustling corn