Even the scarecrow turned about.

Even the scarecrow turned about.

It was the most he could do,

And the wind helped out.

Sending him around,

Spinning awkwardly,

On his broom stick spine.

Arms flailing wildly,

Barely keeping his balance,

As the dry straw makings of him

Were torn away,

Emptying a ragged shirt sleeve,

Removing muscle tone

And leaving him with barely enough

Stuffing to point the way.

But it was a kind of sign

To keep going,

And I rambled on.

The tearful cries

Still echoing in my ears.

A child’s balloon

Snatched away

By a spiteful zephyr.

Sweeping it high,

Its trailing ribbon

Caught up in her precious

Pinkie.

A comforting toy,

A friend from birth,

Hung by a thread

Tossed against treetops,

Dashed over a dirty thatch,

Gathering pace.

Even now,

I could still see

That poor child’s face.

Bereft, all hope gone

I could never let her down.

I would follow

Until the edge of the world

And beyond.

Wheezing heavily,

Legs weary from the climb

I breasted a hill,

And there I saw

An old windmill.

With sails so slowly turning,

A balloon and pinkie,

Caught fast,

Held to the mast,

Just waiting there for me

To reclaim and return them,

Safely,

To the cradle

Of my baby’s arms.