a scarecrow screams

wood pigeons rise

they can't believe their beady eyes

 

across the fields

he stiffly strides

years of east winds in his sides

 

its love he lacks

he's getting old

he wants to come in from the cold

 

there was a cry

one of his own,

from miles away over walls of stone

 

what will she think?

is he her type?

imagines her framed by crops gone ripe

 

quickens his step

creaking his frame

soon nears the moorland world of game

 

on heather now

where shotgun crews

kill fresh meat for their pheasant stews

 

eyes explode, he

sinks to his knee,

wonders about the girl he'll never see