scarecrow of the moors, first draft

My insides are heather and gorse,
stuffed in an old shirt with one elbow blown out:
sprung like a barbed mattress,
bulk without density,
a cage of scratches and air,
coathanger shoulders
aligned to the horizon.

My head is an approximation,
a faceless pillowcase filled with dry grass,
stitched roughly in place,
sufficient to prop up an unwanted hat.

(Swaddle your hands before you touch me
just as you did to pick up the hedgehog
that strayed into your hallway
the muggy night you left the door wide.
I watched you carry it teatowel-palmed
to the blackthorns the council never trims, and wait
till it uncurled itself and shuffled on.)

There are no planted rows here:
this is warding for the sake of warding.