Collecting Conkers - Poem by Angela Wybrow
Old Father Autumn is fast approaching,
And the thirsty ground has had a good soaking.
The air is still warm - sixteen degrees,
Despite the grey sky and the fairy-soft breeze.
For most of the day, rain has stopped play,
And, indoors, young adventurers have had to stay;
But now the weather front is moving on,
And the persistent rain has all but gone.
The Horse-Chestnut tree is bearing its fruit,
And a group of young lads are looking for loot;
A ragged circle, they form round its base:
Each with excited eyes in an upturned face.
They take it in turns to toss up a stick,
As the fruit is too high for them to pick;
In a protective shell, the conkers are sealed,
But these shiny treasures are soon eagerly revealed.
Spiky green shells litter the ground,
As more and more conkers are deftly downed;
Also scattered, are lots of leaves,
As, of its fruit, the tree is relieved.
With collecting conkers, we've a real fascination:
A popular past-time with each generation;
For many centuries, we've experienced the joys
Of one of Mother Nature's most popular toys.
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