A Path of Nettle Stings


Walking by I stopped and thought
a path for my feet leads to naught,
while overgrown and dark,
behind the bark of the tallest tree,
a secret hidden hollow route
might be a better choice for me.

There is no careful stepping stone
around these roots and so alone
I pick a path of nettle stings,
of jagged things that rip and tear
but still I push on against the dark,
far longer than I want or care.

Such searching leads me to a pool
and standing there, a silent fool
is reflected in the stagnant murk
while elsewhere a bright blue sky
holds close a warm summer’s taunt
laughing that I did not walk on by.

Author: George McDermid

I scratch out poems, and the odd little tale. Mostly for my own amusement.

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