King of Stingers

Last year's potato drills
are parched
covered with weeds.
Making traps
for an unsure foot.
The dog is smothered
with seeds and dust.
He sneezes
the rust crusted exit gate
seems too far away.

Only one of the
thousand thistles
carries the regal
coloured crown
that makes it
the shield of Scotland.
Around it's base
the leaves
still full of sap
stand as sentinels.
Spears at the ready.
No nettle poison here.
Just simple steady spikes
to strike fear into
the flesh of
any aggressor.

The others, brothers
stand dry with
stems spindly high.
Their weapons long laid down
the leaves lie flat
against the ground.
The pale cracked crest
releases thistledown
to the wind
for children to chase.
These fairies, floating
on a late summer Sunday
a parting gift
from this
king of stingers.