The Ruined Thistles

Have loosened their armour.
Their sweat-blackened leather

And tarnished spikes
Shrink, the phalanx

Of glinting weapons,
Disarrayed, softens.

They are losing the fight,
The struggle to stay upright.

Old drunks, their wits
Fly-blown, sour as piss,

they scrabble with dirty nails,
Droop grey heads, spill

Themselves, a filthy
Straggle, and loll

About, their flies undone.
They have turned themselves inside out.

A breeze rustles their hair,
Soothes them. It is the law:

Lambs fatten. Oats
Ripen. Virtue rots

From the inside. Reason
Has finally burst them open.

Their wits fly away like smoke
Into next year, and next.