These thistles
Were not
Flowers
That any body
But the finches
Wished
A sprig of holly
Waxing in winter
Loudly rises
Acrid
And woody
Poison
The constant ivy
Ruins the apse
To only
A spider's
Vestment
While red
(As I can be)
Piling stones
All green was left
To carry the day
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment