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 camr 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 hook and honed the blade and went outside and slashed in fury with it . Till not nettle in the fierce parade.Stood upright anyone. next task: I lit A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead But in two weeks the busy sun ans rain Had called up tall recruits behind the shed;My sin would often feel sharp wounds again.