COO AND CULL, Or SCARECROWS IN REVERSE
COO AND CULL,
Or
SCARECROWS IN REVERSE
My friend and comrade, the photographer, Max Reeves,
Was before Covid struck, shooting Scarecrows;
Taking this on as his mission he was prepared to journey
As far out as Sheffield,
Or as far afield
as Southall.
Some he found. Some were bare, ransacked crucifixes
Within country, while some spots ran with rumour
And had no history of crow or general bird freighting
At all. It would seem that we’re all Scarecrows now,
But instead of dispelling birds, we near woo them;
Jealous of flight while we’re landlocked, we even coo
City pigeons, near transforming them into doves.
Who might as well carry the stories we’d share,
As they did in the first days of letters. Today, I read
Through the raven as he spreads wings like pages
On my neighbour’s rooftop, as if directly booked
From above. Care crows from these birds as the scare
Grows amongst us. There is no cloud that quite calms
Us and still no safe horizon’s secured. But what we do
Have is clear sky. A perfect photographer’s background,
Or possible page for a poet on which to picture
Or detail, or capture in verse the obscured.
Fear of course has stark lines as does the cross
Of the scarecrow, but these country Christs
Have no father and no further to go through the lens.
But they haunt us still, all the same, and Max Reeves
Too, I imagine, as these ancient totems used to ward
Off threat can’t defend
What’s been
lost, won
Or saved as we water wheat and boil flowers,
To make our own breakfast as the Supermarket
Shelves remain gasping; it’s not so much a shoplifting
As it is a Shop flown away. I would kill for a takeaway
Now, or for a pint, point or purpose, but the risk
Of what’s handled and the rush of what’s gone,
Leaves me stunned. I believe ‘A Murder of Crows’
Is the phrase that conveys what is missing, or is being
Consumed fast by others, as every teenager retires
And for the older, a social Groundhog Day has begun.
The birds circle and arc. The cull is called. They begat it.
Communicating now through such circles to the forces
In air, there’s a plan. They will bide their time, forsake
Fields and bring no more alarm to the hedgerows.
The fear we thought they felt when sent flying
Was a playful tease on aped man. Not that a Wurzel
Has fur, or whatever it is on Gorillas. The Scarecrow’s
Hay heart is shattered, material for the nest their eggs
Win. That’s the reason why they return, we are a shop
Of sorts for these flightists, but if a bird shops in panic
It is only because the climate descended and told it
That it officially knows what begins; an affirmation
Hard won that quite enough time has been wasted.
And so, spurned, we suffer as our broken straw guards
Grow lonely and lease their insect hearts to the wind
We are scarecrows now in reverse.
And seek the grace flight may grant us.
But now only the birds’ pity answers:
Their coo and cull could cure sin.
David Erdos, April 24th 2020
For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection
David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.
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David Erdos
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© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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