6th May 2022
The oldest hawthorn, which claws stoopcrooked
From the mossraggy bank:
Defiant of time and weather-troubles,
It now leafs bright as kitchen garden mint
With, all balled about like clenched little fists,
So many soon-to-burst blossoms.
Meanwhile its hedgerow daughters and granddaughters
Are already bridesmaid white–
And blackthorns too, which more subtly scent
The mist-stilled afternoon as would quieter girls;
But there’s nothing understated
About their profligate promise of sloes.
One beech is still winter-stalky, but tipped with fat buds;
Her neighbour’s all newleaf-glister…
My onward walk avenues the gale bent conifers
And storm-squattened oaks,
Then meets that sole salt-nervous Scots pine
Which always in Spring drags its greening heels.
I don’t care that this Mayday is sunless;
For the land so needed
That long draught of root-reaching rain,
Strong tastes its contentment now.
© Christopher Jessop 2022
