Conker

When I feel the conker in my pocket

I remember him.  My fingers close round

Its smooth solidity.  It was autumn

Then, a different autumn, but like this

One ripe with golden sunshine and its gifts.

 

Summer has hardened and packed tight inside

This dense, warm little parcel of the year.

And warmer still it grows in my pocket

As I fondle and turn it in the dark,

The dark resting place of my coat pocket.

 

So is a good life packed full of doing

That may grow warm with others, even when

The many years have turned, and darkness filled

Places where memory shone bright and strong.

I feel the conker and feel he is here.