Who has seen the blackthorn
gift of the lengthening evenings?
Pledging another spring
it mantles the edge of the wood
and white as the ghost of March
flowers by the edge of the road.

Whose is the blackthorn blossom?
Does it belong to the name at Lloyds
who owns these woods and fields?
Where among the shivering walls
that have built the cardboard city
could the blackthorn blossom flower?

The flower itself is a wall
hiding that shameful city;
its fires of invisible anguish
are a white and burning bush.

Kathleen McPhilemy

Home | Kathleen McPhilemy Poetry