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
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