January's Scarecrow

White, my icy field dark,
star-pricked by night's rake;
moon shadows stark
as the sun's blade on my birth date.

That gilded day of new corn
and casual joy; child kings
gazed up in awe
at me their scare-thing.

Now, my painted eye counts flecks
of starling dust.
In my mind I run, over the mud
to the sea and the young man
who made me,
but he is gone.

Time does what it must.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.