The Annual Scarecrow Festival

by on Nov 18, 2016 in Poetry | 0 comments

The Annual Scarecrow Festival
was cancelled this year —
in the fields as you enter the village,
in the strawberries,
there is one left like a sign warning
last chance for a hundred miles.

Unofficially, they made them anyway,
fleshing cast-offs with fistfuls of straw,
stalks poxing the backs of hands, wrists.
Either gouging out their eyes with peeler, scissor,
or scoring their face on sack-cloth, pillow-case.
Back-boned them on garden rakes,
belted their waists round avenue trees.

In detached streets
they appeared in net-curtained windows, waving.
Stood in the post office queue and it did not dwindle.
In The Landlord’s Daughter, pint pots glooming,
no one serving the no one drinking.
In a stalled tractor, in a quiet lane,
one found slumped over the wheel,
thick of its head torn,
protest of orange pulp on the screen.

In class they sat in rows and stared
at yesterday’s blackboard,
oozing through the backs of wooden chairs
made for children. Hay fever came late this year
and Mrs McIver missed her first day —
lying in a sweat in a dream
where their autumn breath filled the room,
sweet and near spoiling,
others crowding the window, looking in.

And in The Wyndham, the amateur dramatics theatre,
the scarecrows took their seats,
rustled their applause
as the stage described the scarecrow players;
the more clamorous hands thinning
from the Circle to the Stalls.
Nothing hit them yet, no smell
of orchards burning, of summer failing,
as tiny flame from the footlights
sniffed out the nearest actors,
the bundles of their ankles,
then fed upward, inside,
in their clothes, moving.

The fire ran
for the grinning rows,
like a whisper through string
between two tin cans.

*

Through dark country fields,
passing one left over
like a mast in a storm,
they entered the village and found
cars and houses stalled,
no one in the pub or school.

In the cemetery, in the rows,
heads in the mud, heads in a hole,
they splintered the first box and saw,
where the body should have been,
only a broken hat, black slumps of clothes.
Straw.

Originally from Liverpool, UK, John Paul Davies now lives in County Meath, Ireland, where he is an active member of Crow Road Writers (Twitter: @crow_rd_writers). His work has been published in The Fog Horn, Rosebud, The Pedestal, Grasslimb, Pseudopod, Ares Magazine, QU Literary Magazine, and is forthcoming from Grain Magazine. A poem of his is displayed in the finest pub in Liverpool, The Ship & Mitre.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *