The Crow

The Crow (A lone voice whispers) No happiness for me and my best friend Tony the pony today For we lost our beloved muse At 2 pm One minute she was in full view Perched on our old Oak tree Watching us with beady black eyes like a true devotee Then just like the uptake in poetry In the 21st Century By the younger generation We were old news She must have flew away to better things, we both thought As we walked home Past the village post office Thinking of our old muse With the crow like black hair Lost to us forever After getting us addicted to reading writing and listening to poetry Underneath that old Oak tree Now flying alone Somewhere Out there Looking down below For a new home Like it once had With Tony the pony And me (C) Copyright John Duffy Foundation. Is poetry like a bird flying around looking for somewhere new to land, after introducing others to its mysterious pleasures? But as the newer generations get addicted to gaming platforms, and social media. Will it eventually find landing, harder and more and more rarer?