Scarecrow
Scarecrow
Out of the hand of that ancient man,
the Raven flew to and fro.
Over a devastated land,
washed clean, for new darkness to grow.
That Crow, that black, black Crow,
devouring seed before new life.
That old Crow sees the man on the pole.
That old Crow, flies to and fro with spite.
Nowhere to land, that the man won’t see;
The seed will rise, to fly and dance free!
chrisbunton.blogspot.com
Copyright © Christopher Bunton | Year Posted 2019
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment