Teasel

The teasel is taller
than the tree that sheltered it.
In the warmth of the sun
the shallow pools of rainwater
it carries at its leaf nodes
have all dried up.

Purple spirals of flowers have faded
to leave nests of tiny black seeds
like wasps in springtime

but

it resists pulling,
shallow roots clinging on
until it succumbs
to the sharp
snick snack
of secateurs

and is dragged
shouting from hollow stems
and spitting black pips
to the compost heap.

There, old comb-thistle!
the bees and I love your flowers
and your shadowshine
but you shall not despoil my flower beds
so readily.