The Hawthorn Hedge

How long ago she planted the hawthorn hedge –
she forgets how long ago –
that barrier thorn across the hungry ridge:
thorn and snow.

It is twice as tall as the rider on the tall mare
who draws his reins to peer
in through the bee-hung blossom. Let him stare.
No one is here.

Only the mad old girl from the hut on the hill,
unkempt as an old tree.
She will hide away if you wave your hand or call;
she will not see.

Year-long, wind turns her grindstone heart and whets
a thorn branch like a knife,
shouting in winter “Death”; and when the white bud sets,
more loudly, “Life”.

She has forgotten when she planted the hawthorn hedge;
that thorn, that green, that snow;
birdsong and sun dazzled across the ridge –
it was long ago.
Her hands were strong in the earth, her glance on the sky,
her song was sweet on the wind.
The hawthorn hedge took root, grew wild and high
to hide behind.