Nettles

 My son aged three fell in the nettle bed.

'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,
That regiment of spite behind the shed:
It was no place for rest.
 With sobs and tears
The boy came seeking comfort and I saw
White blisters beaded on his tender skin.

We soothed him till his pain was not so raw.

At last he offered us a watery grin,
And then I took my billhook, honed the blade
And went outside and slashed in fury with it
Till not a nettle in that fierce parade
Stood upright any more.
 And then I lit
A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,
But in two weeks the busy sun and rain
Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:
My son would often feel sharp wounds again.

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