The Scarecrow

To him who strolled round ancient gates,
in darkness, sun or rain he waits.
Standing with ambition ready to serve,
with his ever ready phrase to calm his nerve.
'All is well' he'd say,
and the locusts and birds hid away,
as he stands guard every night and day.

He'd stood fighting the cobwebs of sleep,
daring the locusts and mocking birds.
Watching the gate he'd swore to keep,
while we snore on our rocking beds.

One night, the locusts and birds attacked,
and he fell to the ground within hours of impact.
We heard him scream
'All..... Well'
'is' or 'isn't' none could tell.
Our bodies deaf to his cries,
he kicked, blinked, and then closed his eyes,
the dark sky crimson as he dies.

The giant gate lay broken,
with motes of dust littered on it.
There was whispered gossips, but none spoken,
of quintessence, of goodness, and of wit

'All is well' although he's dead,
'All is well' with all done and said.