Thistles

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 gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.


















Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

- Ted Hughes