NaPoWriMo 11 The Traitor

NaPoWriMo 11

The Traitor

Call me a scarecrow by all means
suits me to a T, a T is what I appear to be
below the pothead
stuck to my cross

In a pale green field of lemony sunshine
I wake to a dew-drunk magpie’s raspy chatter
her splendidly long tail tickling my chest

By midmorning the crows arrive
wrestling noisily for a bit of perching space
My limbs grow slender and their nests
with each passing day

A sparrow nests safe
in my mildewed breast pocket
its tiny blue egg I hold precious
– a fleeting sense of immortality

The sun clambers onto its hottest throne
and a hot breeze rips through the nodding hay
Jungle babblers descend in hordes
their loud queries keeping my loneliness away

It is the evenings I like best
When the freshly watered corn sways
in the westerly breeze
and the earth nods off, its elbows resting on a
slipping orange ball

A visitor from the dell arrives
drumming upon my hollow head
her nimble dance of delight
Her soft coo in the moonlight
thrills my rag-ensconced heart
She sings me to sleep
my blackbird of the night

A flapping fiend to trespassing eyes
You cursed me with loneliness
but with love a scarecrow might change



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