Blackthorns burst into blurs of bloom, darkening
Under penumbras of early bees, each corolla
A flare of petals, promising payloads of nectar
To beetles with probing mouths, the air heady
With smells of sweetness and sex. All this
A generous ruse. Job done, the petals shed,
And the lichen-scabbed twigs are serried
With spines. Bees flex stings. Birds await
The biting harvest of the sloes.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2012.