Thistle

Purple flower among the thorns

And spikes of all that grows around it,

Goes around it does the wind.

High up on a hilltop

Sideways wends the breathy air

And calls the points to enter

Into fleecy, sheepish coats,

Or stick in woolly walking socks.

The thistle grows more beautiful

Than does the dawn of days without colour

In a sky of grey. Though many other

Plants grow and scatter seed,

I’d rather be a thistle than a weed

And toss my purple head proudly in the breeze

Amid a windy gale or two.

Wouldn’t you?