User Review( votes)
written by: Polly Oliver
Thorn tree faces down the flinty stare
Of a Welsh Winter’s sky. Last year’s berries,
Boon for raven and crow, cut to black
In a wind of frosted knives:
Last year’s blossom, last season’s bounty;
They cannot last.
Take sustenance instead from the rocks,
From this tower of gale-bound silence.
Like the Saint who knew to rest his strange cap
On the bare-boned high places, and build a wall
Against the worst of the whirling air
With chinks enough for the cold to cleanse,
Exhilarate, enlighten. The thorn,
Blasted to its essence, worn to the shape of storms;
Its strength is its scarcity,
its magic rooted in centuries.
I want to retreat to the eirie,
To run to the heights. To be rock,
To be mountain, to be wild,
To be still.