|From Visual Counterpoint|
Twisted, sharp and rusty wire,
Modern cheap fencing attire,
Airy guard of forbidden fruit,
Who would fail to reject your suit?
Not the thorn that stands in awe,
Of the prickliest ‘stick’ it ever saw,
A ‘natural’ sees the ‘ideal’,
And feels the power it can wheel.
Taught, crossed and rusty wire,
Once desired by many a buyer,
A thorn will crown your silver brow,
With a diadem woven now
From silence held in winter’s sleep,
While all around lullabies weep,
And call for the end of cold steel,
One red berry offers a meal.