The Conker Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The conker drops to the forest floor, to wait.
The days ebb and flow
Night noises leak from the land

The conker is round as a harvest moon
It has succumbed to the ripeness of time

Little homeless conker, seeking a root-hole
Like a traveller seeking a place to lay your head.
You lie alone in your wooden coat
Hearing the spill of leaves quitting their twigs.

You have split your shell, ready for transformation
Your one and only chance to launch a forest