The scarecrow, in a suit of muddened motley,
shovelful of dream-wheat stilling in his head,
arrives at ten, too dusty, too early. It’s his first ever do (yes, really),
and though he can stand bombardment by hail-ice
or heat, here he feels thrown, pinned back, half-harvested,
and the strained lightsomeness of his party spirit
falters, as any wire-and-spit endeavour would
when pushed to its limit. He tucks his vulgar filaments
into his sleeves, digs for the thread of deliverance.
Then, at last, he untethers his braying, hoofing doubt
and sets it wandering, like love in the wake of a wedding.