The beginning of Autumn in the early 90s
We would walk home from school through Sandfield Park
Where the rich people lived.
Stab the end of a stick through a fallen husk
And then take aim at the great conker trees leaning
Over the fence.
See one that you want and throw the stick.
A hit! But it remains.
Then one falls. A miracle.
Who's stick was it as they would claim?
A spiky ball clips the leaves, landing on the ground
Behind the fence, where the rich kids played.
It was theirs.
As it always will be.
One season I sorted through my haul.
Seventeen conkers to string
And take to school.
Some would crack as Dad put holes through,
They had such potential, lost.
This year they all had faltered in the first game
Except for one.
It was small with a flattened side.
Lighter in colour, threaded with a black shoelace
And single knot.
No treatments; see-through nail varnish, 6 months in the loft, paint.
Just a champion.
A seasoner.
People noticed me and I played to them.
Spinning the champion around faster and faster,
Demanding challengers.
It hit the wall behind me. Cracked.
The challengers came quickly
