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White Hawthorns

The day speaks of white hawthorn Sundays
Long washed out road trips, reluctant relatives
waving you off on arrival.

Rain from decades passed,
a swishing of glimpses.
Parents cramped and fretful.
Passing through a littered accompaniment
of faceless outlines.

Stretched out warming children, car sick,
scrunch up weathered newspapers.
Pungent smells of nostalgia,
almost Springs
bouncing forward hours.

Eager sweet wrappers lunge
for half opened windows
to adorn the floating blossom clouds
of hawthorn bushes,
March’s winds step in
much like a bone-chilled
but amiable hitch hiker.

A querulous sibling rolls over, sickening,
falls out in a screeching of tires.
Tearfully rain-splattered.

Another weekend pulled out and pegged up,
redolent of adolescences quickly traversed.

Mark Ereira-Guyer
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