Scarecrow

Standing aloft in a golden tufted field
Amidst the wheat and hops of yore
Where ales brewed for the finest Celts
Bring spirits high worth fighting for
The Scarecrow drifts motionless
In tattered suit and rags he flutters
Dreaming of the fjords green
The spirits of the ancients muttered
The fog that descends the hills to sea
Blanket the waters rushing with haste
To make the unwary close to harm
As rock protrudes in waves encased
Such beauty is the stuff of dreams
The Scarecrow longs to see them
For a King left without a soul
Is opened up to treason
The Scarecrow knows the secret tales
The stories of great leaders past
Mighty empires fall to ruin
When the crows descend at last
Alone he stands against the wind
To the dust he would protect
For long ago a fool foretold
The Scarecrow lost respect