Gorse in Winter

If I pick gorse in winter, it is not with my hand,
Its spears would draw blood, its blooms would drop.
If I pick gorse under January skies,
It's for sunshine petals' perpetual cheer.
I don't pick gorse, when the cold winds burn,
It chooses me, forces my attention, glows in my eyes.

poem © Celia Warren 2011