The Guardian goes Awry

Standing ragged against the rain,
Only a torn jacket to scare the crows,
Hunched in darkness onto the pole,
Fixing him to his lonely spot.

Row upon row, field upon field of crops,
Spread before him in the driving drizzle.
He is lord of all he surveys,
Servant still to the living ones.

Undead, unalive, his presence lingers,
Shepherd of cabbage-leaf from the crow.
Yet the scavengers mock his purpose,
Strutting, pecking, peering with disdain.

The hollow man sighs with the wind,
Arms raised, flapping about his stuffed body,
Almost as if he were warming himself.
The cold blows through and through him.

The wisdom of his turnip-head cannot fathom
Why he was put there, effigy of mankind,
Until the dark November night made bright
In a way he would rather forget, forget.