Conkers

The magnificent Horse Chestnut Tree
Beloved of small boys you must agree
As they try to wrest its seed pods free
The prized brown and glossy conker;
To thread upon a length of string
And do battle in the schoolyard ring
At each others threaded nut take swing
For to split it means to conquer.

The tree can grow thirty metres tall
A sturdy girth they cannot shake at all
So, too impatient for the pods to fall
To dislodge its fruits they struggle;
But if they asked in pleading tone
The squirrel who is there at home
Would shower them, with pods thrown
And those spiny fruits they’ll juggle.


Jackie S Brooks ©
22 September 2003