Fields of bluebells and a hawthorn tree in the fleeting shadows of the spring skies, Dartmoor, UK


This has been a truly bountiful year for tree blossom. The hedgerows are full of flowers, more than usual, and now, as May wanes, whenever there is a breeze the petals of the Hawthorn's blossoms fall in slow-moving drifts of confetti.

There is a large old Hawthorn tree outside my front door; it is impossible to convey how laden the tree has been for some weeks with delicate blossoms. It got me thinking, this old fairy tree. Every year the tree comes back from the barren starkness of winter, bravely bears leaves and then brings forth hundreds of thousands of tiny perfect flowers. It does this so that afterwards it can bear thousands of scarlet berries. The berries will pass through the bodies of birds as food, or fall to the ground, but only very few, barely a handfull, will find fertile ground and conditions ripe enough to send down roots and form, all going well, adventurous new trees. 


These children of the old Hawthorn that grows in front of my door if they ever sprout may do so very far away, carried by a bird through the air, or some small scurrying creature. The tree will never know of them, and yet its genetics will echo in its offspring. From hundreds of thousands, uncountable blossoms, there may be a small number of new trees. In spite of this battle against the constant potential for barreness, this paltry return, this unknown thread thrown into the future, the Hawthorn still returns to blossom freely every year. There is something in the nature of the parable in this cyclic generous life of every tree, of every flower, of every careless weed, laden with flowers, laden with seeds, bursting forth excessively, time after time.

Hawthorn extract is also a remedy for the heart.


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