Thistles by Ted Hughes

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

Snippet of Sylvia and Ted talking about how they met.

Two minutes of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes being interviewed and they talk about how they met and wrote poems to each other. I can imagine the longing and intensity of those poems.

The courtship of poets...