THE DEAD TREE.
(Being a terrible result of reading too much poetry in the modern manner.)
Slushy is the highway between the unspeakable hedges;
I pause
Irresolute under a telegraph-pole,
The fourteenth telegraph-pole on the way
From Shere to Havering,
The twenty-first
From Havering to Shere.
Crimson is the western sky; upright it stands,