Thistles

Those of you who are interested may read the previous post to understand why I have not been posting or visiting for the past three days. But I am back now and, although still a bit shaken, well enough to share this poem by Ted Hughes on a late August plant which is presently ubiquitous in the hedgerows and fields of the Shropshire Marches.

Thistles

by

Ted Hughes

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men

Thistles spike the summer air

And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst

Of resurrection, a grasped fistful

Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.

They are like pale hair and the gutterals of dialect.

Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow like men.

Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear

Stiff with weapons, fighting back over he same ground.