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.