Thistles Blown

Thistles blown

by the breeze,

gusty moan,

downy trees.

Peace, alone,

hum of bees,

come and gone,


Backlit, warm,

Old Sun’s glow

lit the swarm.

Bees? They know.

They know me.

Elder friends,

landing free…

‘light again.

© CGT, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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