Nettles

We lean into the lane,

guard the borders

of your freedom.

If you dare

touch our fine hairs,

we inject poison,

inflame your skin,

leave raised red lumps

on your limbs.

We’ll show you

where the bodies are buried.

Your dead enrich our soil.

Seek us

where we should not be,

in wild lonely places;

bogs and moors

where soil is poor,

ground thin and acid.

To find your lost ones,

look for swards of us

a crop cultivated by war,

by fear and punishment

for those who step out of line.

Dig to find your disappeared.

Liz Byrne