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.