The creeping thistle

Creeping thistles linger long on my mind
as does filth beneath my fingernails,
requiring a rare depth of scrubbing.

This life amongst the elements rails,

in parallel with tribulating gusts,

against manufactured trials.

The roots of the creeping thistle thrust

far and wide, long and deep,

as the shovelsteel blunts and rusts.

Each stroke into the Earth merely reaps

an infinite spread of the spiny Cerberus,

no longer merely Hades’ keeper.

His mane of writhing snakes bursts from humus

goading this futile whack-a-mole con.

Yet, inch by inch, the beacon of summer

draws Herculean strength from dilated dawn.

As the world bathes in light and lettuce,

the creeping thistle has not yet won.