Thistles Blown

Thistles blown

by the breeze,

gusty moan,

downy trees.

Peace, alone,

hum of bees,

come 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.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: