Crataegus

The indigenous one
So abundant is it
Amongst the other trees
It makes a truly hardy hedge
It’s antiquity does please

It’s timber may be polished
Burnished with such fire
It can grow a hundred years
It’s contorted branches tire

From forming many artists turns
And heights to many feet
Up into the clouds it goes
And on bleak hill sides does treat

The wild birds to a nest site
Perhaps a conjured state
An in May such bounteous blossoms
And such perfume if you wait

And experience it’s grandeur
To excite the heart and soul
And Jacobson fine organ
Not able to control

Itself,for hawthorns spirit
A mass of verdure stains
The countryside around these parts
With all it’s festive gains

Great poets of the past
Have set the record straight for they
Have given space to the May blossom
Shakespeare he did say
Turner too
And Spenser
In his, Smithfield retreat
Conjuring up his faerie glades
And tousled thorny meet

And those crimson berries
The Chinese reap the haw
A sweet meat
Said to heal the heart
Which many wild birds adore

The wild hog in the forest
May chew upon a few
And gather from them sweetness
Beholden to the dew

it’s history emblazoned
By the bad luck that ensues
When cutting down the blossoms
It brings no one good news

So leave it in the hedgerows
Don’t bring it inside or
You may find strife is evident
Once inside the door

Goldsmith he re called the worth
Of lovers in a golden bough
Sweet nothings possibly shared aloft
Burns and Keats noticed the flower

We see it all, we poets share
The gift of love the thought of care
The heady carefree bounteous charm
Of following May into the calm
Abounding world of Druidic chance
The groves of oak the Chaldeans
Dance
The primitive and mysterious way
We feel when tasting the flowers of May