A Thistle’s Whistle

Windblown and grown throughout the valley,
the sharp burrs wave in rhythmic rolls.
In the quiet evening the rush is heard;
soft as a whisper, sharp as a whistle.
If you listen you can hear its calling,
enthralling and even. In the bushes and stalks
it talks to the shadows of my Scots ancestors
long interred; the rush is heard throughout the dale,
in the thistle’s tale its whistle wails.

 

DM

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