Hawthorn

I am Hawthorn by Emily Cullen

I am hawthorn

Beautiful and forbidding
I inspire reverence
a healthy reticence.
You might find me near
holy wells and people tend
not to trespass when they
spot my copious blossoms
waving white from roadsides
through May and June
because it’s widely known
I hold the in the
shade of my embrace.

I’m bountiful, not half as austere
as people think, I let brides pick
my boughs in Bealtaine
pluck my haws at Halloween
and for eons I’ve been handy
at hedgerows and boundaries
to keep sheep and cattle at bay
with my gnarled, prickly thorns
musky scent of sex and death.

They’re sure I must be lonely
standing on the quotidian
like some vestigial sentinel
guarding the Otherworld
the only tree in the field
but I carry my gnosis
my own enchantment
deep within my branches
can still hear echoes
of the ancients
and I refuse to weep
like the pussy willow.

How my sap rises
as I watch planners
propose ring-roads
close to my ring forts.
Somehow their mortal
drawings disappear
eventually, their zones
steer clear because I am
a tree of life, sacred
till the ends of time.

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Emily Cullen Conditional Perfect

 

Emily’s latest collection, Conditional Perfect, is published by Doire Press and can be found here.

Find out more about Emily on our Contributors’ Page.

(Photo: peter castleton/flickr.com/CC-BY SA 2.0)

 

 

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