Peter Thomas who comes to our services when he can sent me this moving poem - as a reflection on the crucifixion. It is extremely good...

The Scarecrow

A scarecrow stands upon a hill
His arms out-stretched so wide they fill
Some birds with fear; others perch
Upon his shoulders made of birch.
His spikey brow, his turnip nose
His arms of straw, his splintered toes

Some birds mock; others jeer
Some bird’s beaks as sharp as a spear

His loin-cloth waist, his robe all rotten
Made from cloth torn top to bottom

Fennel, barley, rape and rue
Forgive the birds they know not what they do
And give us this day our daily bread
Less birds eat seed that’s sown instead

Larceny’s the crow’s confession
He was pierced for the crow’s transgression

And forsaken by the farmer’s wife
Who stable-made his rustic life
Of flesh of paper, blood of sap
she placed a feather in his cap

And thus in a field be done thy will
The scarecrow’s arms are stretched-out still
Before the raven, crow and gull
Upon a hill they call
The skull

Copyright Peter Thomas