In winter they're like old men
clasping at the edge of pools
stony limbed, angular,
about to take a dive.
A dozen trees with branches
cut off.

On summer days like this,
when petrol fumes dilate and shiver,
they're still half-trees
as if the air had turned on it's provider,
gnawing at the candy-floss jade -
leaves that cannot grow beyond
the half-width of walk-way,
and like petulant children
dragged from the promise of play
their sticky resin pods
cling to the path in protest.