White Trees on Oxford Street
White trees in front of Debenhams’ brute gray
Are shot through with March sunlight. Their green leaves,
Though small, are visible among the splay
Of petals that we don’t deserve. Taste grieves
As buyers want Swarovski din. They’re deaf
To sprouting breves: sweet line phrases among
The blossoms spread along spring’s treble clef
Like symphony arpeggios are flung
By Massenet, a vernal one, whose tunes
Extend, turn into melodies as long as stretched
Out Aprils. Little sunstruck leaves are runes
As meaningless to customers as etched
Eternal hieroglyphs above this crowd
Of tourists. They shop only for the loud.