Along Acacia Drive,
Through Elm Tree Road and Hollyside,
And into Laurel Lane and Willow Mews,
The civic cherries thrive –
An orchard only one-tree wide,
But threading through suburban avenues.
Before March has come,
I see the cherry plums are out,
Their branches full of flowers, keen to pop –
I never see the plums –
The pigeons scrump the lot, no doubt,
Before they even get the chance to drop.
And just as those ones fade,
The cherries-proper flush with pink,
A very English taste of oriental.
And yet, as they parade,
I’ve never seen them fruit, I think –
I guess that’s why they call them ornamental.
A burst of April snow,
Confetti for an Easter bride,
A blossoming before the leaves are built.
They really make a show –
They love to boast, all front and pride,
Pretending like they’re never gonna wilt…
Of course, ere April’s out,
They’re over for another year,
And all that’s left are unimpressive trees.
They are a Springtime shout,
Before the moans and tuts appear
To ask for dignified behaviour, please !
Which is a shame, I say,
For here beneath each semi’s eaves
They symbolise the middle-class at root –
For all their youthful play,
They settle down and spread their leaves
And sire such oddly neat and waxy fruit.
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