Autumn Friday in sepia,
Counting conkers in the park,
Lit by a fuzzy chestnut sun
That fairly crackles
As it touches the chilly branches
Of the mother tree.
I, too, am a mother tree
Hoarding conkers in the bottom of the pram,
For excited little twiglets,
There must be near two hundred in there now,
Large and small,
loving them all,
My daughters
wonder at the shiny brown bullets,
Loading their skirts with more and more,
Dropping, laughing, searching, competing
For the biggest, shiniest ball.
Home we go,
Loaded with treasure,
I will stash them in a bag
And let them live with us
'Til Summer.
They must be kept,
I cannot be parted
From the source of so much joy
For the keepers of my heart.