Thistles,
by Ted Hughes
Against
the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of
men
Thistles spike the summer air
Or 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.