Eavesdropping (Poetry)

Some nights I catch the odd, sly word
from wind-hissed secrets, almost heard —
low taunts and sniggers passed between
tall gangs of trees that slouch and lean
in deepest shadow for disguise
dark-cloaked by heavy, mobster skies.

Hunched, black shapes that mutter on
in conference the whole night long
with tapping twig and dangling wire
whose nag and worry never tire
but drone incessantly and keep
me fretful — on the edge of sleep.

What should be hushed is plagued by sound
air seethes with gossip throbbing round
which comes and goes to tease the ear
with rumours I can’t help but hear
and so, despite a vague unease
I eavesdrop on the unquiet trees.