The Carline Thistle Coppice

Oscar Loerke

Within the grove of thistle
My home lies deeply hid.
Pan stalked right by a-bristle.
Unto the end to wrestle
In the night-dark form he did.

Pale thistles stand there rigid
In mourning, wild array.
A creak from roots there burried;
When we Pan's sleep have harried.
In his defense none play.

A blossom may have fallen there
For deeper communion
With him, to wither bare;
O father, thou'rt now my care,
I'm guarding thee, my son.

In woodland deep its hiding,
By softest light befired.
My heart - naught came a-riding,
No unicorn came a-striding -
My heart just beat inspired.