Beware thistles

The dying thistles blow in the wind
Spreading next year’s crop
Of pain and beauty
Floating on the breeze.
Beautiful at a distance
They provide some
Sustenance for insects and birds,
Until on an urge to reproduce
They send out their
Seemingly innocent progeny,
On wings of fluffy parachutes
To colonise the world
In the same guise.
Then turning their shameless heads
Upwards, like little suns
Of self satisfaction
Too late they realise their
Mistake
And hang their heads
In death and repentance.

Such is misinformation
Difficult to stop
Attractive to look at
Apparently benevolent
But inflicting
Pain that pricks at our heels
And stabs our fingers.
And which misinformation,
Seeds itself in ways
That we cannot anticipate.

Beware thistles.

Poem and Photo Copyright to Englepip©

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Wind in the Pines

Oh to be among the pines

And hear the elemental rushing of the wind:

Earth-based waves lashing the forest, crashing and fading 

When the branches sway twigs bruising  twigs,

Like pebbles that grind along the shore as waves retreat through shingle:

Calming, but with a sense of danger.

Poem and photo copyright Englepip©

A walk in the Mountains

Mountain fog

The cloud creeps down the mountainside 

Belly to the ground, as though sniffing its prey. 

Nothing is sacred; nothing is safe 

From the cold, damp fogginess of its intrusion, 

Penetrating every crack and crevice;

A pervading darkness and dankness. 

The warm air holds its breath, prescient

Of its obliteration, as it capitulates 

To condensation and the first drizzle

Transpires as from the ground

Precipitating a cold and vicious, 

Slapping rain, that soaks to the core. 

For now, the cloud has won, but we shall

Look for the sun and the rainbow to come.

Poem and photo copyright Englepip©