The plane trees lean in confidentially,
whispering their teenage gossip, each new branch
thin, quick to pick up where the sun
angles past five brick storeys; early light.
Leaves are hanging out together, a green gang
skilful, starting to be shady, flickering
their unkempt heads over the street’s neat lines
where no one hears their mute rebellion.
D. A. Prince
If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be
pleased to hear from you.