Plunging my hand into my bag,
hoping for the right set of keys out of three,
I find the shriveled conker.
Puckered, unlovely, anal.
When I stopped in the street to claim its shine
it was the radiant sun and all autumn goodness.
A charm against spiders.
A childhood’s gloating treasure.
It was glossy, new born from its damp white grip.
All the joys of October were alive in it.
Then I forgot.
And here it squats.
What other jewels are so soon lost?
Tell the heart of perfection, that longs to rot?
The seeds from a pomegranate’s red leather fist,
knifed open and prised out, juice squirting in mist.
Their faceted garnets with white at the tip;
a blood drop, or a tooth lost from white bitter pith.
But the redcurrants, proud on their dangling strings;
heavy, heaping and languorous, priced for a king:
appetite loves extravagance; time becomes myth
and an hour gives a day’s light, when red lamps are lit.
