Casterbran

If your travelling through the countryside out of town
You may drive through an odd village named Casterbran,
At first there seems nothing odd about it, not visibly,
The houses are quaint, the gardens sumptuous,
As any small country village should be.
But as you drive deeper into these secluded homes,
You will see a striking feature,
One that stands alone.

Along the road that strikes through the houses
Strange scarecrow figures strike odd poses.
Not out in the fields where their work is clear
But along the roadside, gazing at cars driving near.

Outside shops and on grass rises
They come in all shapes and sizes:
Scarecrow policemen, scarecrow farmers
Scarecrow children stand and smile,
Forever waving as you go by.

I even came across one peeking from behind an apple tree,
As if trying to hide away from me.

And there are strange scarecrows
That rise up out the ground as if in quick sand,
Torso caught in the soil that is all around.
In mid scream, their heads cocked back
Frozen flailing, grasping for the air they’ll always lack.

You think ‘How strange…’,
But after driving through
Your thoughts move on to thoughts anew.
And it sits in your subconscious, an oddity.
An oddity you may remember sometime, back in the city.

Funny little town, with the odd scarecrow people,
That little town that sits not far from home,
Not far from home, but far enough to remain unknown.

……


But if more than once you have driven through
You’ll see nobody around,
Nobody but the silent scarecrows looking at you.

And if you were to stop and think about it
You realise you haven’t seen any person in the town.
No one walking the dog or on the green, sitting down.
Not one person leaving the post office or buying groceries,
A town of hermits Casterbran must be.

Only the scarecrows stand and watch,
The town seems like a stopped clock
Their theatrical poses paused halfway through.
And for what reason I have no clue.

And those houses, what do they contain?
People sitting inside, whether it be sun or rain?
All day lying about in cold rooms,
From morning dawn until darkness looms,
At the wall they sit and stare,
Not unlike the scarecrows, out there.

Or are they empty?
Not a soul to be found.
No people no pets,
Nothing about to utter a sound.
Just cold, dead silence,
Waiting to be filled.
But who made those scarecrows?
Surely someone skilled.

Those dramatic poses, those eerie features
Surely some master created those straw-filled creatures.

So inside the same as out,
Loud silence dominates that bit of land
Throughout the village neither cry nor shout,
Uncanny quiet prevails in Casterbran.

A quiet too quiet
A town too still
Casterbran,
Population nil.

A populace of vacant homes
And scarecrows who stand alone.
They look at you with vacant eyes
Staring as you drive by.

They are so still, those scarecrow figures
Whose rustling in the wind sounds like whispers.

It makes me shiver,
To think about
Those scarecrow shapes,
Outside each house.

I do not dally when travelling through,
Through Casterbran where nothing moves.

Nothing moves in that town,
A hushed presence all around,
Not one noise, no song of birds,
But still, I sense something stirs.

But still, I sense something stirs.