It is the conker season, when the young and the young hearted scour parks and woodland floors for horse chestnuts. I have met a few people under the conker tree in Barrow Park. Grandparents collecting for their grandchildren, fathers dodging the half-eaten conkers dropped by the squirrels in the tree above and I have found a few and brought them home.

Mine will not be pierced, pickled and strung upon a lace. They are in a bowl with some acorns and have already begun to shrivel and lose their shine. That is Autumn. Richly coloured leaves fall and fade and mulch beneath our feet. And some of these wizened fruits will settle down amongst them, pressed into the earth to wait for Spring.

CONKER POEMS

TERCET 
Acorns and beech mast fall,
Hips, haws and berries, all
Part of the harvest, but not the fruit that calls.

We seek another prize.
Hidden in leaves it lies
Down on the forest floor, sometimes in spiked disguise.

It is a child’s delight
When one comes into sight.
We take the harvest home, ready for conker fights.

HAIKU
A harvest we had
Trophies of childhood that fed
Spirit, not body.

CINQUAIN
Pierced,
pickled and strung
upon a lace and hung,
brother’s blow to take. One of you
must break.