by Merrianna Mutton

Created on: April 17, 2009

Silent Sentry

Purple-flowered, with spikish thorns,

Just two short years and it will die.

Two years it watches, standing guard,

So no armies pass on the sly.

Barefoot armies past have tried it,

Past where the thistle stands upright,

But in the dark the thistle waited,

Assured of a cry in the night.

A nuisance, perhaps, is this plant,

With its prickles and spikes to chafe.

But if the thistle grows near you

You know that your borders are safe.

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