Through winter
their spiny blackness
is capped by snow and frost
until a gentling thaw
brings tight sprigs of green,
our ‘bread and cheese’
chewed on the way to school.
Close after comes
that watercolour wash of fresh leaf,
a congregation of tiny hands
whose uplifted palms
are open to the sun.
By Easter thorns are hidden
and May brings their blossom,
that overwhelming white
of mayflower.
May, the month of Mary,
May, my grandma’s middle name
and May, month of my mother’s death.
Soon, hawthorn is forgotten,
dwarfed by beech and elm and oak
in the warmth of summer,
yet in the year’s end cold
its berries gleam,
blood-jewels in the hedgerow,
before just bare black needles
waiting to fledge again
in that green flush of hope.
Palms, and thorns, and blood,
every year the same words,
the same story,
as if ordained.
Refer to: Trees
Apr 2021 – Full house
Beautifully observed natural history, folklore, nostalgia, religious symbolism – so much to appreciate in a short poem.
This poem was chosen for a programme of words and music about May, broadcast on Zoom by Leeds Festival Chorus in May 2021.
It was accepted for publication in the ‘Dream Catcher’ series, in a slightly edited version – the three lines beginning “May, the month of Mary” being omitted.