The ScarecrowA Poem by David Lewis PagetOut
on the marsh on a lonely night The
wind soughs through his rags, The
hat that’s pinned to his painted face, Flutters
and soars, then sags, His
eyes are wide and his mouth is grim As
an owl is put to flight, And
nothing but shadows will venture there For
the Scarecrow rules the night. And
back in the manse in a window seat The
Parson’s daughter sits, She
stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but In
truth, is scared to bits, She
watches the sails of the windmill turn And
creak and groan in the gloom, As
clouds come stuttering over the marsh In
the rays of a Harvest Moon. The
father is out in the donkey cart To
tend to his aging flock, He’s
left Elizabeth waiting there By
the tick of the hallway clock, But
out on the moors and beyond the marsh There
rides one Highway Jack, A
frock coat topped with a bunch of lace And
a gold trimmed tricorne hat. He’s
whipped the horse to a lather In
a retreat from a new affray, For
the magistrates have gathered Vowing
to ride him down that day, The
redcoats wait in the village Inn For
the sound that they know too well, When
the curate sees the approaching horse He’s
to toll the old church bell. But
the curate lies in a drunken fit On
the floor of the old church nave, And
soon, by matins his soul will flit From
life to an early grave, Elizabeth
sits in the window seat And
thinks of the coin and plate, As
the highwayman dismounts, and ties His
horse to the manse’s gate. He
beats on the door, ‘Please let me in, I’m
weary and faint, that’s all. I
wouldn’t abuse your person, but I
fear my back’s to the wall.’ She
leaves the seat and she slides the bar For
bracing the oaken door, ‘I
dare not, sir, I fear for my life, You’re
safer out on the moor!’ Their
voices echo across the marsh Like
fear, distilled in the night, And
something shudders out in the gloom And
lurches to left and right, It
seems forever, but now a sound Tolls
out, like a final knell, For
something, out in the church tonight, Is
tolling the steeple bell. He
barely makes it back to his horse When
the redcoats stand in line, Their
muskets fire a volley of shot And
his coat turns red, like wine. They
go to the church when the deed is done To
say, ‘You have done well!’ But
the curate lies on the cold stone floor, The
Scarecrow tolled the bell! David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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12 Reviews Added on July 31, 2013 Last Updated on July 31, 2013 Tags: marsh, manse, highwayman, redcoats Author
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