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