Alan S. Austin
Arizona Playwright • Writer • Poet
  

Whistling in the Wind

An old scarecrow
Arms wide apart
Beckoning the birds to flee.
Ragged coat, threadbare
Fluttering and turning in the breeze
With billowing pants
Against a darkening sky.
Oh my Christ
How have I forgotten you?
They gave you gold
And surplices galore
And incense and weighty robes
And all you cared for was a warm suit
Against the cold
A slice of bread to share
And wine to drink
Instead they laid stones on you.
All you can do now
Is keep whistling in the wind
To chase the crows.