King Thistle


 How long has this old thistle lived?
 Standing improbably tall
 His crown of rusted straw
 And a silvered gorilla chest

 Hiding here, a King
 In the back alley
 Behind the rusting cars 
 and scrap metal
 Is he waiting for the return of his army?

 I stop to admire him.
 I take a photograph 
 (without permission)
 Turning him to black and white 
 A cenotaph

 My still captures the light of his pewter leaves
 It looks like moonlight

 I will take him home
 And fiddle with his colours on my screen
 He will stay here waiting.
 Perhaps I will come back and check that he’s still here
 And if he is I’ll be pleased
 And if he’s gone I’ll smile
 Thinking that maybe
 His army returned after all 

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