whinbush

Whinbush

Cursed to the margins. Tarred and scorned by the
landlord as troublesome weed; your refuge
a dusty lane by the back field’s hedgerow.

Scourge of landscape and classed as a vagrant
upon your native soil; you foil death plots
by sprouting pin-sharp spikes in self-defence.

Foolish men proclaim you look depressed - not
me! The only gloom I see round you is
bleakness of winter you burst forth from.

Whinbush, you are my sweet Colleen, who shines
against the cracked black bog; heralding spring
the sun kisses your face, as you unfurl
a yellow blanket of sweet-scented flowers.

Jonny Watson
March 2008