Thistles

Ted Hughes

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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.

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Comments1
  • francisyount3

    Wow, this poem really got me thingking. Its like the thistles are fighting a war or something "Every one a revengeful burst Of resurrection". The vivid imagery is killer too, so cool. Crazy how some words on a page can transport you somewhere else.