I've spent about half an hour this morning looking for a scarecrow image which reminded me of the ones I used to see on the Isle of Wight in my childhood: two large sticks, crudely tied together with twine, in the shape of a cross and covered with something which looked like a shredded academic gown.
They never worked, of course, but they always gave me an uncanny sensation. I felt something of the sinister which today's image seeks to emphasise but also pathos, as if they were a reminder of the "looped and windowed raggedness" of the abject poor.
I'm the cat between several saucers of milk at the moment. Three or four hazy outlines of stories, none of which will take off. I took a walk through the Wycoller woods a couple of days ago in an attempt to bring the fairy doors (mentioned in a previous blog) into some kind of relationship with my scarecrow ideas. Nothing happened!