Lyn Moir
Conkers
There was a time you couldn’t wait
for them, their antique sheen
half-hidden under yellowed leaves,
like high-class furniture, mahogany
or walnut, live with years of polishing.
Before you pocketed your haul
you’d gaze at them and feel
surging desire, anticipate
the edge of danger, sharp as autumn
fires, bitter as smoke.
Piercing the holes was blood-lust,
wounding the solid flesh
joyous release. You kept one back,
unmarked and glistening, protected
from the world of smash and grab.
Next day you saw the chosen one,
lack-lustre now, and shrivelling
like any other passion.
Page(s) 29
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