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blackthorn
puckering sour
the spiny bush squats
hushed in tart stillness
smelling of the memories
bottled in the larder
she sits in the kitchen
keeping her hands moving
thumbs circling like two small animals
taking it in turns to stroke
each other’s aching shoulders
she will wait all winter
as days darken and death prowls
knuckles swelling
as the bitter sloes
loosen in their jar
until one cold march morning
when her airman
lands on the prickly doormat
and the suckering stems
break into blossoms of snow