Thorn Bird
Snap a prickle
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
Farmer Jack
was a happy chap
with loving wife
of big round eyes
and a dog called Nap
Hard the day
cutting boxthorn
a great swaith of prickle
bloodied hands
clothes torn
Neglected long
this bed of strife
must be cleared
for better use
by order of wife
From crack of dawn
to the midday sun
Jack cut a passage
to the heart of thorns
it was no fun
Then glimpsed a form
strange to see
like a fairy tale sleeper
skin white
in the prickle sea
Snap a prickle
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
Thinking a statue
a work of art
Jack cut deeper
to the sleeper
thorns to part
Naked on bed
as if a grave
one branch away
thorn scratched white skin
blood it gave
Trickled red
down that arm
"Am I mad,
am I bewitched?"
a screamed alarm
Cutting with care
the beauty revealed
asleep to life
in the heart of thorns
no longer concealed
Should kiss those lips
like beauty sleeping
to waken the damsel
from strange slumber
from her dreaming
Snap a prickle
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
Jack staggered back
quite overwhelmed
a kiss would be sex
between those legs
if he delved
His loving wife
with big round eyes
filled his sight
saved his mind
where passion lies
Looking back
the damsel vanished
only a stone to see
went home for lunch
quite astonished
Boxthorn regrew
best left alone
the forest stayed
the heart of thorns
with a sleeping stone
Only one soul heard
the strange encounter
when out with the sheep
Nap was told
the thorny adventure
Snap a prickle
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
Farmer Jack
was a happy chap
with loving wife
of big round eyes
and a dog called Nap
Hard the day
cutting boxthorn
a great swaith of prickle
bloodied hands
clothes torn
Neglected long
this bed of strife
must be cleared
for better use
by order of wife
From crack of dawn
to the midday sun
Jack cut a passage
to the heart of thorns
it was no fun
Then glimpsed a form
strange to see
like a fairy tale sleeper
skin white
in the prickle sea
Snap a prickle
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
Thinking a statue
a work of art
Jack cut deeper
to the sleeper
thorns to part
Naked on bed
as if a grave
one branch away
thorn scratched white skin
blood it gave
Trickled red
down that arm
"Am I mad,
am I bewitched?"
a screamed alarm
Cutting with care
the beauty revealed
asleep to life
in the heart of thorns
no longer concealed
Should kiss those lips
like beauty sleeping
to waken the damsel
from strange slumber
from her dreaming
Snap a prickle
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
Jack staggered back
quite overwhelmed
a kiss would be sex
between those legs
if he delved
His loving wife
with big round eyes
filled his sight
saved his mind
where passion lies
Looking back
the damsel vanished
only a stone to see
went home for lunch
quite astonished
Boxthorn regrew
best left alone
the forest stayed
the heart of thorns
with a sleeping stone
Only one soul heard
the strange encounter
when out with the sheep
Nap was told
the thorny adventure
Snap a prickle
crack of thorn
drag the branch
to the pyre
in the morn
Jaqi
Bluh
Thursday
4
April
2019
NOTE ~ This poem is my take on sleeping beauty. The image is of boxthorn on my land in Tasmania, very old boxthorn. You never know what will be found in there. Clearing the ancient boxthorn at present, and it is hard to avoid blood running from prickled hands. Such long sharp spikes. No lover of people. Boxthorn is from South Africa, transported to Van Diemen’s Land as a hedge plant, but is gleefully removed now’a’days.
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