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Eating Chestnuts
As a child I used to cycle down to some chestnut words with my family and this poem describes how we'd spend an hour or two in the sharp air finding chestnuts.
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Submited By : |
sara |
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| Date: |
20 December 2006 |
| Author: |
unknown |
Rating: 2.9/5 (12 votes cast) |
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Eating Chestnuts |
Burst open with a stamping foot descending on its chest
The green spined shell reveals a pearl of glossy brown
With a kiss of white on its swollen, massed,
Plump spitting-fat flesh,
A peach of a find,
The best -
Heavy to the hand , solid to the eye, another body for the bag :
We scuff amongst the golden leaves of autumn,
Crisp, dry, fragile, crunching,
Looking for the next,
Perhaps a loose traveller split by the bounce
At the end of a lonely fall
(Listen, barely a rustle in the leaves,
There is no breeze,
And another one lands in the silence
Amongst barbed-wire rolls of twigs, musty fungi, decayed wood,
Birch and rhododendron).
Thick-gloved we twist and wrench,
Cruel,
Gleaming-eyed,
Excited,
As others utter little cries,
'Come here!' and 'Look at this!'
Until at last, full-laden, sated,
We retire,
Trek back by the sparkling stream in the deep-down ditch,
Through ranks of beech forming mats of nut,
Past the raft-shaped rotting wooden bridge
With gaps and moss on its slippery trunks,
To the bikes, and cold cycling, home:
And the sizzled yellow meat burnt under the grill,
And the black-charred skin curling slowly off,
The full bowl slowly emptying,
Appreciative grunts,
Discarded skins -
Eating chestnuts.
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-unknown - |
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