"Scarecrows": a new poem by John Kinsella

No real need for scarecrows around here:
most of the grain-inclined birds are killed
and the few left don’t scare easily
or have seen it all or more. Still,
some newer farmers give it a go: jackets
flapping in the breeze, troubled grins, eyes
that see far beyond their fate; but more aesthetics
than end results. And some old-timers
rustle up wooden crosses and coat hangers
in their fields, distressed figures
troubled by colourful parrots
nibbling at their responsibilities.
But few, very few. Shotguns in the pantry.

This article first appeared in the 07 January 2013 issue of the New Statesman, 2013: the year the cuts finally bite