Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men <br />Thistles spike the summer air <br />And crackle open under a blue-black pressure. <br /> <br />Every one a revengeful burst <br />Of resurrection, a grasped fistful <br />Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up <br /> <br />From the underground stain of a decayed Viking. <br />They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects. <br />Every one manages a plume of blood. <br /> <br />Then they grow grey like men. <br />Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear <br />Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.<br /><br />Ted Hughes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thistles/
