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.

Talk to me.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: