Thistle

When I ran to you Expecting open arms and warm tea I got sour rind and sop When I ambled toward you Bridging bramble toward the sea I stuck only in the stubble The thistle by the barn rallies its barbs like swords from arid land not wicked but dry When I wanted lift I got stone When I wanted rest I got din When I wanted cheer I got cap When I wanted shade I got cast When I wanted drink I got dust When I wanted warmth I got soot When I wanted food I got swill When I wanted wool I got thorns