The blossom baton of the hedgerow relay has been passed to the hawthorn, Crataegus monogyna, as we race through spring. White after nuanced white, blackthorn, cherry, hawthorn, crab, elder.
In 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑠, H. E. Bates writes of the hawthorn, “its flowers are the risen cream of all the milkiness of May.”
What do you make of the scent, though? Do you find it too much? Do you detect the hint of decay?
Much loved by pollinators of every buzz and hum, the hawthorn announces itself, all lace and abundance before settling to green. Later, the haws appear, droplets of crimson.