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 moves
All gold and soft and warm
While swaying wistfully above
A canopy of palms.

And there imagination strolls
With friendships looping on my arms
Headlong into a ripened sun
Who steeps me in her balms.

And when the little Indian breeze
Rustles through these Indian trees
Coconuts swell in my leaves
Like pearls upon a palm.