The Scarecrow

Forever stood, in the field, just standing.

The scarecrows life is not so demanding.

Baking away in the heat of the sun,

Never is his days’ work done.

He guards the crops, stops the birds from feeding.

The smallest breeze is enough to send them screaming.

Up, up and away they urgently fly,

From where they came, back into the sky.

In the rain he sags with soaking.

In the wind he coughs with chocking.

But always with a smile upon his face,

The scarecrow stands tall and holds his place.