The Ineffective Scarecrow Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Perhaps he is sick of being a scarecrow
As I sometimes ache to be anything other than me
Now that I'm all dried up, like a squeezed orange
Like a swan on tenterhooks
Treading a path between broken dreams and ashes

The scarecrow wants to go back to being a stick
No more predators, loneliness, crows
With their constant cawing

He is sick of being a warning in the wind
He is sick of being one foot stuck in the dark

He dreams of being a spoke in St. Catherine's wheel
A moment of burning glory, then adieu
Of being a broom in Hitler's final bunker
Sweeping aside the bullets and swastikas