What hand did plant these maple trees <br />And set them in a bed of stone? <br />Away from verdant woodland <br />Where their roots can't grow nor spread, <br />No place have they amongst this town <br />To dwell within a crumbling tomb, <br />And sentanced now to live amongst <br />The lowly urban dead. <br /> <br />What if their boughs could shade a field? <br />And capture morning sun with glee, <br />Not swamped beneath the rooftops <br />Where the light so rarely falls, <br />Confined upon this dreary street <br />And trapped within a solemn cage, <br />To gaze between the bars and see <br />Those gloomy red bricked walls. <br /> <br />Weep on, weep on your golden leaves <br />Which fall from high unto the ground, <br />And cloak the gum and litter <br />That has gathered through the years, <br />Make patterns on the pavement slabs <br />Bring colour to this ashen plain, <br />And I shall keep believing <br />Through the pain of autumn tears.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-maple-trees-of-leicester-street/
