Wednesday, December 18, 2019

pollarded plane trees


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.

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