Gorse

I am a gorse tree made of gold
Upon a moor of loamy charm
Who folds around his thistle heart
His thorny thistle arms.

By winter's night I dream - I roam
Out reach of blizzard's harm
Along exotic shores of foam
By oceans blue and calm.

Between my roots, the soil spreads
All gold and soft and warm
As swaying wistfully above
A canopy of palms.

And there imagination strolls
Friendships looping on my arms
Headlong into a ripening sun
Who steeps me in her balms.

And when that little Indian breeze
Rustles through those Indian trees
Coconuts swell 'neath my leaves
Like tiny pearls upon a palm.