Our families often protect and care for us. The following poem deals with the desire most parents have to protect their children from negative experiences.
Nettles By Vernon Scannell
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 hook and honed the blade And went outside and slashed in fury with it Till not a nettle in that fi erce parade Stood upright any more. 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.
