Hawthorn

a single stunted hawthorn
breaking the hill's brow, working out
a median, angled between
its own upthrust and the blasting wind's
horizontal, just in the wind's favour

with long low limbs writhing and wrung,
muscle impacted upon muscle,
bared to sinew, not an inch of spare bark,
at full strain solidly lignified,
dignified, over unhuman time

and roots like a twist of guts
piled above, pulled out of the ground
they grip, become limbs, rounded
and thick, the contorted balance
of forces hardened in struggle

its antique wood further turned
and polished, shiny with use
by the backsides of homely sheep
that have sheltered in its shallow hollow

is indifferent to its scrubby leaves,
withered haws, all its story packed
and sculpted in wood, mid-living-
point between rock and flesh

© Alec Rapkin