The
pollarded plane trees of this street
extend shorn,
branchless limbs.
In rows,
these trees stand,
Like giant
injured pleading hands,
Imploring for
light and warmth,
Which is
denied,
By the wet slate
grey sky.
But from the
top of one tree,
A red-breasted
king sings.
So all may
know, from the magnificence of his song,
That this is
his domain,
Where all
who hear,
Are subject
to his reign.
Cock robin
swells his breast and proclaims:
Winter will
end.
Spring will
come again.
