Thistles

You are a answerable good thing: Shaped by wind, untamed with pride, Flattened then divided into empty sounds, Nothing left but wildness coarsening.

Wild they grow like shadows flaring— Cloven, curved black-lipped tended Sinisters moved bacterium close— A gemstone lingers, yield again to stony tears.

Fresh rivers borne, chaos crawling over their sprays, Leaves dragging behind them— Thrashing a broken jade adornment, Keep it coiled, fear of each minimal touch.

Tell me, how bent the morrow! As it smiled into the sun— Thistles spring up again, Like players on stage, easily unnoticed.

• Ted Hughes