Thistles

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of

Thistles spike the summer

And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful

Of resurrection, a grasped

Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust

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

Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.