Thistles Poem by Gert Strydom

They come and come up again on dirt-roads
as if there is never going to be an end to them,
do balance on three spikes or more
while they do stung into bare feet,

into hands that are hoeing
even into the rubber-like tongues of the cattle,
with the thrusting splintering thorns
as something almost evil in its savagery,

do draw blood and stick to where they pierce
as if some ancient revenge is being played out
time and again, as if they have got a hatred
of animals and of children, women and men.