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Blackthorn is not slow in spring. Nor mouth-dry. Forward to wring our tenderness. Oh,
the straggle-tangle, gangle-daggle twisted twig-thrusts whisper eldritch spells,
ensorcel with such delicate instantiations, ruffled by cold wind under a gloved sky,
convince of their reality that spring must be struggled for, and wry winter put by, put by.
..........................
The fruit of the blackthorn is the sloe. Oh, so dry and sour. Good for sloe gin, apparently, no doubt among other recipes.
A Horrid sight!
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Three Fosters cans behind the bench lie - a little dented:
"Crush the can like a man after drinking," seems the plan - well... I almost rest my case before it's begun. Hrm!
How could anyone be so base, so callous, so anti-social as to put their taste buds and their esophagus through it by drinking such a foul tube???
This is only the tip of the ice-pack! Its very likely one of these sorry youths (who, in their defense, love nature yet for its deep and mystical quietude away from parents and policemen) have wardrobe drawers or cellars full of the poisonous drug that rots the inner organs in a trice.
