deepundergroundpoetry.com
Thistle
Thistle of mine,
O, how you poke me,
when I'm unaware,
dry stems of decaying seed - lost fertility.
O thistle,
stuck like briar round my artery,
what great wind must I need to unstick you from the flesh of me?
O little thistle,
so you might fly upon the breezes to stick upon another,
plant a message in a forlorn garden,
be lost in a river - picked apart by a squirrel - stepped on by a pup,
and eaten by a sparrow,
O thistle of mine.
O, how you poke me,
when I'm unaware,
dry stems of decaying seed - lost fertility.
O thistle,
stuck like briar round my artery,
what great wind must I need to unstick you from the flesh of me?
O little thistle,
so you might fly upon the breezes to stick upon another,
plant a message in a forlorn garden,
be lost in a river - picked apart by a squirrel - stepped on by a pup,
and eaten by a sparrow,
O thistle of mine.
Published 17th Feb 2014
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