Poem by Giles Watson

Blackthorn

Blackthorns burst into blurs of bloom, darkening under penumbras of early bees, each corolla a flare of petals, promising payloads of nectar to beetles with probing mouths, the air heady with smells of sweetness and sex.

All this a generous ruse.

Job done, the petals shed, and the lichen-scabbed twigs are serried with spines.

Bees flex stings. Birds await the biting harvest of the sloes.