Retired from the fields of corn,
the old scarecrow stands
abandoned on the lawn;
old ropes, binding his hands.
Almost ashamed to be wearing
the ripped cap on his straw head,
his tall shadow tearing
sunlight from the flowerbed.
He stands, surrounded by the flock,
laughing at his disgrace:
even the baby sparrows mock
his scarf-hidden face.
Clinging to the wooden stake,
his stiff stick neck tied,
and arms spread, wide awake
in the soil – crucified.
Stug Jordan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-scarecrow/
