How could anyone walk past a conker
and not stop to put it in their pocket?
I choose the shiniest, let the others be.
It fits inside my fist as perfectly
as a foetus fits inside its mother.
The skin's a rich and glossed mahogany,
the base a paper-bag brown smeared with white.
It's cool against my cheek and smooth as ice.
I'd like to place it on my tongue and suck
so I don't have to waste my breath on talk.
If you've any comments on this poem, Fiona Robyn would be pleased to hear from you.