Spiny

Spiny

In a hedgerow turned to stone, a thistle stands alone,
Its green‑green crown of bristles, a prickly, noble crown.
Each needle, a tiny knife that guards its treasured root,
A silent promise of survival, of stubborn, sheltered truth.

Beneath the winter’s silver hush, a porcupine does sleep,
Its body wrapped in quills that guard against the creep.
With every gentle sigh, the spines flex like a shield,
A living lantern in the dark, a bold, prickled field.

The riverbank a garden of ink‑black nettle lace,
Its touching hairs a warning in a subtle, courteous grace.
“Do not cross,” they hiss, yet fashion shade for those who roam –
A prickling secret kept within the mossy, bristled home.

Even the clouds above may form a spiny dream,
With jagged shadows cast across the winding streams.
Our thoughts, like needles, prick at edges of desire,
Bringing life to the stillness where the quiet thoughts acquire.

So when you walk the lane and feel a soft surprise,
The spiny world will kiss you, 'till your wonder fills the skies.
A tribute to the strength within each fibre, sharp yet true,
A living testament that even prickly things can bloom.