Title: Wildfire
by Megan from Scotland | in writing, poetry
A new life, born into this world!
Well, not exactly. Made.
I am alive, they may not know it.
I do not move.
But I gently sway in the wind,
I do not talk, but they talk for me.
That is the way it is.
I do their job for them.
I must admit, it is rather boring.
What do I get in return?
Nothing physical, but a few birds' droppings.
But maybe I do get something.
You cannot see it, it is not obvious,
They are happy.
Through the winter, for them.
When the sky cries,
Cold, cold, teardrops.
Of wonderful patterns, and shapes.
Landing, laying, a blanket of white,
Upon me, not warm. Not cosy.
Sodden, surprised,
When it melts too, for them.
When small objects push through the soil.
Beautiful, with white heads.
Like the sky's teardrops.
Others too, like the sun.
Bright, pale, tiny medium.
The music of spring.
When all life comes again. For them
The buzzing of small insects.
The growing of fruits.
To feed their hungry stomachs
Their eyes too. Their greed.
Thanks to me.
When we go round the clock. For them.
The world has changed, again.
We come to a time.
The time they have been waiting for.
The reason I am here.
Harvesting for their greed.
Along the wind, a scent.
Unknown to my mind.
Musty. A scent of destruction.
It hangs. Just there.
Playing with my mind.
Yet, it cannot be placed.
Danger.
An orange light, away in the distance.
The same colour as the autumn leaves.
Flickering, raging. Closer.
They scutter, they run, they scream for protection.
I can only detect their danger, nothing else.
What my eyes see, and my dry heart thinks.
My dry, dry heart.
It washes over me.
Like a waterfall, of heat.
I cannot feel it. Seeping into my soul.
My every nook and cranny.
Washing out all the feelings.
The years of experience.
I did for them.
Soon, weeping. Sobbing.
All their hopes, my hopes, dashed.
Like an empty shell, he stands.
Scouring his land, his work, my work.
He comes across me, a pile, charred and black.
He mutters a word, he shouts, he screams
'Scarecrow' he sobs.
It was the summer holidays, and stupid as this may seem, I was really bored. There was nothing to do, and all my friends ( well mostly all) were busy. My mum said to me ""you haven't written any poetry in ages, why dont you write something?"" and I told her that I couldn't just sit down and write just like that. She told me that I could try. I asked her what to write about and she said ""A Scarecrow"" so I sat down with paper and pen for an hour or so, and this was the result.
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