The White Bloom of the Black Thorn
The white bloom of the black thorn, she.
The small, sweet raspberry blossom, she.
More fair the shy, rare glance of her eye
than the world’s wealth to me.
My heart’s pulse, my secret oak leaf, she.
The flower of the fragrant apple, she.
Her tender kiss, to long for and miss,
strawberry sap to me.
Listen, lines that I quote,
a minstrel once wrote,
the harper in the hall was he.
World of white gull and grey wave,
I look back to and crave.
Wind from the west blows free.
White gull and grey wave,
a Celtic cry, pining and brave,
on the edge of the sky, tuned to a long lost key.
Utterly faraway, long ago, it was,
on a green island, on a grey, sparkling sea,
but the white bloom of the black thorn
still gleams in the sunshine and holds the cold rain to me.