The Hawthorn Tree, by Yvonne Aburrow
The hawthorn tree stands alone in the valley,
I remember her shape against the sky,
Branches twisted with memories of the wind.
Her roots clutch at the stony earth,
Bony fingers in the unyielding loam.
The stream whittles a crevice among the rocks
And the fir-clad hill slopes down to the valley-mouth.
I found a veined pink stone, a gift.
And the thorn tree stood, armed with tiny spears,
Caparisoned with her shiny leaves,
Spreading herself in the heavy air.