Blackthorn blossom
Blackthorn
Prunus spinosa
How do you feel about it? Do you have an opinion? It was a shock to me to learn amongst my friends and family I am entirely alone in even acknowledging it’s existence. I annually look forward to the first pops of white decorating the woods, it’s a long wait, a slow trudge through winter, always appearing earlier in the year in my memory, the reality following desperately late, unknowing is the blackthorn of my eager anticipation. Yet here it be. March 16th 2025. Our strong East Yorkshire winds cruelly keeping it at bay that little while longer, knowing my friends inland are (unknowingly, and perhaps uncaringly?) basking in it’s white frothy blossoms already.
If cherry blossom is Austen, all refinement and romance, blackthorn is Brontë—wild, untamed, and a little melancholic.
The blackthorn flowers before its leaves emerge, its white bloom standing stark against dark, thorny branches. It is a blossom of contrasts—delicate yet fierce, abundant yet often overlooked. The hedgerows it inhabits are common, crisscrossing fields and winding along country lanes, so familiar they are almost invisible. But to notice blackthorn is to notice the raw edge of the seasons shifting, the lingering bite of winter still in the air, and the slow unfurling of something new.
Unlike its later cousin, the hawthorn, whose soft green leaves cushion its blooms, blackthorn is sharp, defensive—its branches twisted with thorns that make it impassable. Perhaps that’s why it remains a flower for those who look closer, who pause to appreciate the wild and the windswept.
So as the hedgerows froth white with blossom, take a moment to notice. Look closely at this quiet herald of spring, this overlooked beauty. It is the poetry of the untamed, the spirit of the moors, the resilience of wild places. And, like the stories of Brontë, it lingers long after the petals have fallen.
