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Poem	as the landscape falls away the hawthorn in its gnarly fashion is content to stand alone berries (the very tint of passion) that birds are wont to feed upon bloodstain the shortened day a stubborn tree that speaks of crusty age - its thorns alert to any too-spirited invasion who comes (it seems to say) gets hurt not those birds with juicy beaks insects swarm – by invitation come may though – winter fading may tree with its prickly pride sprouts white in prim rejoicing hunches around at eastertide spry uncle with (brightly voicing) maids and suchlike masquerading when hedged in (deprived of pique) its softer nature greenly oozing it’s host to children’s fingers (their tasty bread and cheesing) first name means strength in greek one of nature’s best harbingers many names to match its guises whitethorn quickthorn ske porn hag rich too in its folklore listings much belies its tetchy tag its wry wood (tangled twistings) pleurisy-cure a book advises old men have a hawthorn look pretend to a rough vernacular deny once-selves gentle as fairies wince at their own spectacular maydays (wistful gobbledegook) as the young feed off their berries
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