Blogging Poetry

Thistles Blown

Landing free.

Thistles blown

by the breeze,

gusty moan,

downy trees.

Peace, alone,

hum of bees,

came and gone,

pollen-thieves.

Backlit, warm,

Old Sun’s glow

lit the swarm.

Bees? They know.

They know me.

Elder friends,

landing free…

‘light again.


© CGT, 2017.

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