Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
Or crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking,
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow, like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear,
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.