A rectangle cut into the earth
Receives a seed-berry smash, delicately laid
My foot imprints the haw-berry mould
Becomes hard by pectin and the sun

Glossy-red berries help the print pop
Then burst to leach their sugars—
A soup inside the fold

Insects, thirsty from their summer’s work
Detect the feast, alight to imbibe
Hawthorn’s tears

Later, the prints turn black, get cast in frost
I return, my paw-prints no longer bare
Replace the rectangular sods
Put an end to the conversation

HAWTHORN FOOTPRINTS
Shingle Street, Suffolk, September 2023
Made in collaboration with Suzanne Boniface
Editing by Jay Simpson