Thistle

Thistle, blue bunch of daggers

rattling upon the wind,

saw-tooth that separates

the lips of grasses.

Your wound in childhood was

a savage shock of joy

that set the bees on fire

and the loud larks singing.

Your head enchanted then

smouldering among the flowers

filled the whole sky with smoke

and sparks of seed.

Now from your stabbing bloom’s

nostalgic point of pain

ghosts of those summers rise

rustling across my eyes.

Seeding a magic thorn

to prick the memory,

to start in my icy flesh

fevers of long lost fields.