It worries me not I seem a scarecrow 
     only the odd wind fluttering my suit
          sunsets I've seen at the old riverbank
               and faraway lights on the other side

colour draining slowly from the landscape
     when day ends his project and turns away
          in the gloom melancholy is mine yet
               the very next day I'm inclined to paint

and sometimes it's clear I'm not even there
     but flailing away in my capsized skull
          failing to calm my more angry curses
               or fled to fields I wish into being

and so if you will I'll seem a scarecrow 
     stood aslant for enlivening winds blow