Arthur
Crows come
And crows go
But Arthur always was.
For years the lofty oak had been
His look-out every day
And soon as Mother chucked the scraps
His shiny eyes
Would spot the crumbs
From eighty yards away.
No craftier crow
In all the land
Than Arthur black and strong
And wise more wise
Than all magpies
He would not fly straight down.
Although he’d had
So many scraps
From Mother's grassy lawn
He’d never ever fail to wait
For just in case
It might be bait
To trap him once for all.
So Arthur’d sit and look around
Then fly a reconnoitre
And then he’d fly a closer one
And land in something shorter.
OK! I think, would Arthur think,
It might be safe to eat it
And down he’d drop
And grab the lot
And quick as quick
He’d beat it.
In memory of a crow that used to perch in the first big oak at our tree nurserey in England during the 1990s and 1980s.
Copyright © John Puckett | Year Posted 2024
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