White Thorn

White Thorn (Sceach Ghael)

I have heard women over 50 say they are invisible.

They must mean invisible like the Whitethorn tree.

You can’t see it unless you know what you are looking for:

The muscle, bone and heart of Irish hedgerows.

Unseen, unrecognised 

Holding it all together.

These women over 50

For a few short weeks in May 

They wear their white dresses

They laugh out loud

Shamelessly 

Attracting all sorts.

Before disappearing again 

To do what they do

And in October 

It would be easy to miss 

An almost imperceptible blush 

The ripe harvest of invisible pleasures.

Whitethorn, or Hawthorn is a sacred tree in Ireland connected to fairies, spirits and mystical beings.  Something I only learned recently is that the flowers change from white to pink when they have been pollinated.  It is said you shouldn’t bring it in to your house.  This poem came to me a few years ago, driving through the Irish countryside.  The women are putting on their white dresses now.  You can see a twinkle in their eyes.  Listen and you will hear them laughing.