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 he took my hook and honed the blade
And went outside and slashed in fury with it
Till not a nettle in the fierce parade
Stood upright anymore. Next task: 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.