Spiking the bones of May

by Beth McDonough

Thrawn as bleaker morning, red
wrinkles deep inside its owned skin,
intensifies the last of haws.

A warning against insistent thorns,
this hard-fisted consistency fights
thaw waters thrashing the muddied firth.

As sky throws ash in what we will not call
a storm, tomorrow is just another tide caught
in the maw between the road bridge struts.

Hawthorn purses shrivelled lips,
reserves next year's news
for better times.