Hawthorn This wicked thicket grasped and stung her. The thorns were natural witches' blades seeking sacrifice for the land; long and sleek, they let the blood. She had stopped struggling now. Her limp body echoed the long-gone hanging men that awoke the land. The thorns embraced her in a final welcome, as she slowly seeped into the softening loam below. *** Weeks ago, a wagging-tailed dog had started the obsession, that and an acid green tennis ball carelessly thrown. “Shush you, shush!” she had admonished her wriggly friend, as she crawled belly down in the mud to retrieve the treasure. Dogs never strayed too close to the Hawthorn bush; they knew the tax they had to pay. “Shush! For heaven's sake!” A rattling, high-pitched warning volley of barks issued from this small guardian as the bush shimmered in the wind, wafting its peculiar fragrance. White constellations of flowers grouped along stark branches turned their delicate faces to her, graceful stamen bending in the unfelt breeze. It captivated her. The peculiar magic of scent clung to her clothes and her hair. Later, cooking dinner for the two of them, she smelt the sweet summons on her hair, paused,
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