My son aged three fell in the nettle bed. <br />'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears, <br />That regiment of spite behind the shed: <br />It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears <br />The boy came seeking comfort and I saw <br />White blisters beaded on his tender skin. <br />We soothed him till his pain was not so raw. <br />At last he offered us a watery grin, <br />And then I took my billhook, honed the blade <br />And went outside and slashed in fury with it <br />Till not a nettle in that fierce parade <br />Stood upright any more. And then I lit <br />A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead, <br />But in two weeks the busy sun and rain <br />Had called up tall recruits behind the shed: <br />My son would often feel sharp wounds again. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Vernon Scannell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nettles/
