At first they fool us,
the Black Thorn trees
on the Irish coast,
bending in rows
like dancers,
delicate and fragile
in late light,
dark lace against
the grace of evening sky,
leaning in unison.
Up close
they tell another truth,
twisting and bristling,
a mad tangle of branches,
their backs long crippled
by the winter's
unrelenting winds.
The only kind of tree
that has survived
this landscape.
The fists
of these roots
have not loosened their grip
across the centuries.
And every Spring
they lash back, in rages
of white blossoms.
-- Deb Cooper