Crossing the road
She stooped, and when she picked it up
she was a girl again, she showed it
to her husband, still a boy.
A conker, fresh from its shell
chestnut, moist, newborn smell.
She’d smelt the smell a thousand times before,
each time a moment shining in her eyes.
He felt it too, their turn was near again,
to die and rise again,
and all would be well.
© Paul McCombie 2005