I’m walking to the station through the needling mist.
The grass on the cricket ground is grey with dew just frozen,
and I turn down the hill, under an arcade of
chestnut trees, where my mother brought us to collect conkers;
kings of colour, soft greens to hard,
flowers of white and purple,
and yellow to brown –
and then the long scuff,
kicking them up in clouds as marbles scuttle to the gutter.
But today is grey and their spiny silhouettes stand naked.
A lady passes me, and then a young man.
They are hurrying for the fast;
I am going for the slow.