To many the thistles are a noxious weed
But too late to spray them or cut them when they have gone to seed
The wind blows them elsewhere where they germinate
And one thistle flower many thistles create

But of the worthlessness of thistles can one really be sure
For in the milk of the thistle for some ailments a cure
A weed to one to another is a flower some say
We all do look at things in a different way.


The seeds of the thistle many seed eating birds eat
And what is inedible to one to another tastes sweet
And though of Nature's ways so little we do know
What does grow in Nature for a reason does grow.

In the winds of Autumn the thistledown fly
And one thistle in hundreds it can multiply
And I often recall a poem from my schoolbook five decades ago
Called 'Thistledown' written by harold Monro.

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