Here you will find thePoemThe Child Impaledof poet John Le Gay Brereton
Beside the path, on either hand, To keep the garden beds, The rusted iron pickets stand Thin shafts and pointed heads. And straight my spirit swooping goes Across the waves of time Till I'm a little boy who knows A fence is made to climb; And bed and lawn and gloomy space By thicket overgrown Are wonderlands where I may trace The beckoning Unknown. But O the cruelty that strikes My elder heart with dread The writhing form upon the spikes, The trickled pool of red! So, every day I pass and see The fence the urchin scales, The little boy stands up in me To curse the iron rails.
