All Burred Up
A gauntish missile
Bleakened the air;
An arid thistle
Struck my hair.
The knife-tongued briar,
With frenzied touch,
Like lurid fire,
Steeled its clutch.
My ravaged skin-cells
Were rudely smirched,
Like tarnished tinsels,
Rubble-perched.
Disdainful thistle,
Do you not fear
To shrill your whistle
In my ear?
Evelyn Coffey
How remarkable that Evelyn could find poetry is such an ordinary - and possibly irritating - experience like getting caught on a burr!
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