Huathe the Hawthorn plays mischievous trickery
if we attempt to define what is real and unreal,
until we discover its not a question of how to live,
but it's the question that is our life.
Huathe the hawthorn is full of riddles
Lures us, embraces us, then it hides.
Fragrances flirt within wombs of women,
triggering sparks of lustful longing ...
... of men to join them in a mating dance.
From the circles and swirling of dance
Dances of wonder, hoping and lust
Huathe pulls away the blanket of time,
a tease of the faerie folk, they say.
A tease of the faerie folk?
Some ask around hearth fires
that cackle when stoked
with a thorn twig or two.
My fire is lit.
My bed is made
of hawthorn flowers gathered.
I'm far away from any home.
She came to me.
Night time, moon time,
in the spring-time,
under the starlight,
beneath a hawthorn tree.
She trod softly over the new ferns and shamrock
towards my white chamber,
towards my sweet bed,
to rest her warm breast with me,
beneath the hawthorn tree.
I had always thought, I had always been told
Not to touch hawthorns I'll forsake luck
That a soul may pass from this earth early
That the water will stop flowing through the land
But there something I feel, before I'm too old,
I must lay with the hawthorn
where I will bless hope.
and heal a broken heart.
Nobody knows who seeds a hawthorn tree,
what sprouts its warning thorn,
what scents its embracing blossom.
We know it came long ago.
Hawthorne hands gripped into the earth
while our eyes glanced towards the sky.
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