Weed

The little pesky heads Of green bowed necks Thrust through the red crust And two oven glove hands Clap and open to morning rays Pity the mittens off Reveals little feathery fingers That when touched A little odour lingers Revealing the true identity Like a fingerprint Funny how the first to show The fast, beating the slow Is the last one that you want It’s a weed, a thistle, a thorn Looked at with gardener’s scorn Drowning out the light that The slow Need to grow In rapid spreading consuming need Of more and more and only greed But the gardener’s fingers find The little waist And twirls it out Out of its seat And into the compost heap