The hedgerows play host to the noble Blackthorn,
With its first show of blossom; white as the pure driven snow.
Little clusters of delicate petals appear to grow,
With zeal and such urgency on dark stems devoid of foliage.
Tiny green shoots start to nervously appear,
Bound tightly at first; in readiness to burst.
Elegant blooms some tinged with pink,
Slowly bow their heads, sadly, soon to be extinct.
Some falling gently, to the ground,
Quietly, dying without a sound.
Their fragrance alas taken, but shed not a tear,
As the Black Prince of the hedgerow,
Will reappear in splendour,
Serene again, year after year.
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