Leaves whirl off wet trees
as we wander up the lane,
Josie in her black duffle coat,
with its mother-sewn gloves attached
to each sleeve with white elastic,
and her long hair tucked into the hood.
Me, in my parka, my hands bluish
with the cold.
The ditches are filled with the
treacly rot of October,
the disintegrating ochre,
orange, honey, paprika of the leaves
dancing down the hedges.
They flicker in her eyes,
as the wind, gesturing, swishes them
in wild spirals, then flounces out
leaving them deflated,
pitching and yawing
back down to the ground.
I try to kiss her but she
turns away and my lips
brush her cold cheek.
She is quiet then and her
eyes are turned away too,
'looking for squirrels'
she says.
Then we get there and it's forgotten.
We climb over the fence beside
Ebeneezer's Chapel, a strange quiet
place with five conker trees.
We lob big sticks crashing into the
branches, jump at the tumbling
excitement as the conkers are
knocked from their twigs by whirled
smashes, or lucky throws,
and fall to earth where we stamp
on the spiky lime green grenades
to pop them from their shells.
Big caramel nuggets
polished like old touched mahogany,
or dulled by an oven and smelling
of vinegar, skewered to remove
a tunnel of oily white pith looking
like it should taste sweeter than chestnuts
but incredibly vile.
We thread them on shoelaces.
Take turns to hit, the winner unbroken,
a oner, a twoer, a sixer
the loser cracked open,
trodden, mashed into the earth.
We share them out although
conkers are wasted on girls.
Josie holds hers, timidly,
at arm's length, eyes closed,
shoelace too loose, not wrapped
tight around her fist.
She's too scared of the
vicious burning-knuckle sting
when holding a noner, and it's missed.
This is the chance you take for victory,
fulfilment, happiness.
I still wish she'd kissed me.
[ Previous | Index
| Next ]