The thistle sneaks up on me, a spike through my thoughts
prickling tears, during your favourite film Braveheart.
The thistle bruised, laid on top of your coffin
became a keepsake, bereft in a box.
The thistle haunts, I turn around and it’s on stage
framed, alive, very much in my face.
A grab by the lapels of where you once wore
the thistle with pride while taking our vows.
The thistle in the garden, survives the surge of the storm
and roots regrow into the depths of your ashes.
The thistle stirs and whispers praise through the wind,
sweet and potent; your musky scent.
The patriotic tattoo, I no longer get to see,
the thistle pierces, I plead on my knees.
