The Spring in my Street

The beams of gold caressed
the Gulmohar trees,
like milestone lamps they gleamed,
yellowing my street.

In which I took a stroll,
dodging the fallen polka yellows down the road,
while the wind tussled my hair,
threading my sight with glints of gold.

So I walked beneath 
the sun-kissed trees,
with its buds tracing April’s golden beams,
As the spring in my street 
is of a blue sky with a yellow tint.