Strewn
amongst green crowns
below
the balcony, horse chestnuts
are almost
ripe here in August.
Our
best conkers came from trees
around
the church: they fell
and
split on the asphalt path,
dark
hearts in pulpy flesh,
like
promises of future triumph.
There
were tricks, yes, and theories:
soaking
or baking them into hard skulls
to
crack against each other –
and
rapping our own knuckles
for our
autumn playground sport.
Somewhere
in a different part
of the
wood, I was telling you this
as
you tried to fathom the rules
of
another improvised game.
