Conkers

The sun is shining; no chance of rain.
The trees are golden down Elvendon Lane;
A living canopy above my head.
I step on a conker, shiny and red.
The first one! I pick it off the ground,
Slowly turn it round and round.
Lines and patterns swirl across,
Dancing on the nutty gloss.
So unique, yet one of many.
Special, yet the same as any.
I gather several in my hands
Taking as many as I can.
I pocket them, then stoop for more
From the carpet on the floor.

Autumn leaves, a year goes by.
The conkers, discarded, forgotten, lie
In a bucket in the garden shed.
No longer shiny, no longer red.
Dull and rotten, cracked and old.
Dead amongst the greying mould.

Outside the golden sun shines bright
Bathing nature in golden light.
From the trees in Elvendon Lane
The conkers start to fall again.