Two Poems
By JON STALLWORTHY
Thistles
Half grown before half seen, like urchins in armour double their size they stand their ground boldly, their keen swords out. But the farmer ignores them. Not a hand will he lift to cut them down: they are not worth his switch he says. Uncertain whom they challenge, having grown into their armour each breaks out a purple plume.
Under this image of their warrior blood they make a good death, meeting the farmer's blade squarely in their old age. White then as winter breath from every white head a soul springs up. The wind is charged with spirits: no- not spirits of the dead for these are living, will land at our backs and go to ground. Farmer and scythe sing to each other. He cannot see how roots writhe underfoot: how the sons of this fallen infantry will separate our bones.
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