Your love is like a thistledown.
So soft and smooth, was our delight
As to lie upon it for the night.
You, my love, and I would bed,
A tender pillow at our head.
Under down that’s silky smooth,
As is your skin, which I had wooed.
But come the Spring with seeds unsprung
When new shoots shot and leaves unwound
Then spikes they grew with wretched prickles
To wreck our bed with constant bristles
And love which started gossamer-light,
Turned to splinters overnight –
That pricked and stuck beneath the skin,
Unleashing a spite that underpinned
A love not firm, based on flocculent things:
For thistledown that’s smooth without
Is treacherous, secret-sharp within;
Beguiling love: your gentleness
Has a knife-edged paradox built in.
Photo, poem and idea, copyright to Englepip©