Red berries grimly clinging to the top
Branches, left leafless, of the tree outside,
See lower branches stripped of fruit. Inside,
Their contents sour, they know they must soon drop.
On either side, the evergreens stand tall,
Proud, preening; in winter, pre-eminent.
They stretch their necks above rooftops, and call
And wave to each other with each breeze sent.
Salford means nothing to them, Manchester
Neither, nor England, nor even the Earth.
They don’t invent or worry, but bless the
Birds and the squirrels. But, to us, their worth
Is in the way they screen from sight and sound
The doings of the Joneses and the Browns.
Sat 2 Dec 2006
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