That Low Sun

The low sun glitters through the alder trees,
I'm walking home through willow leaves; this fen
is so familiar - felled by a disease,
That birch has lain there ages - maybe ten
Years, since it was felled from graceful heights;
And brought so low it is a place to rest,
Sometime alone - I'd look up at daylight's
Fluffed clouds that just pass by; but, it was best
When he was there and bade me cut a switch,
From that same fallen tree; and had me bare
Myself, so he could satisfy his itch
To taste the power of discipline; and dare
To strike me hard, until the day was done;
As alders witnessed under that low sun.