Conker
Conker
This months writing magazine sets autumn as the theme of an exercise. Choose an autumnal object and imagine you are that object. Write from the perspective of "I am...", "I once...", and "I will...".
I usually collect nuts, cones and seeds from the garden at this time of year, and bring them inside as a sort of natural autumnal pot pourri, keeping them on the window ledge until it's time to swap them for Christmas decorations. Now, I'm beginning to wonder if this is wise!
I am a rich, deep chestnut brown
Hiding a juicy white heart,
Picked up from the kerbside,
Teased from my prickly shell,
Polished by smoothing fingers to a glossy shine,
Chosen from the multitude of my companions
To sit inside a pocket and travel to this place.
I once grew fat on a branch
High in the air, overhanging the wall
Looking out towards the world.
Waiting for the sun to ripen me,
The wind to loosen me,
Gravity to set me free, all so I could fall,
To begin the cycle once again.
Now, I will never germinate,
But lay barren, trapped inside this bowl
With alien companions:
Hazelnuts in star shaped wrappings,
Acorns in their cups, pine cones smugly open
Their seeds scattered safely before being gathered.
My shine grows dull, as the days draw in.
© Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
This months writing magazine sets autumn as the theme of an exercise. Choose an autumnal object and imagine you are that object. Write from the perspective of "I am...", "I once...", and "I will...".
I usually collect nuts, cones and seeds from the garden at this time of year, and bring them inside as a sort of natural autumnal pot pourri, keeping them on the window ledge until it's time to swap them for Christmas decorations. Now, I'm beginning to wonder if this is wise!
I am a rich, deep chestnut brown
Hiding a juicy white heart,
Picked up from the kerbside,
Teased from my prickly shell,
Polished by smoothing fingers to a glossy shine,
Chosen from the multitude of my companions
To sit inside a pocket and travel to this place.
I once grew fat on a branch
High in the air, overhanging the wall
Looking out towards the world.
Waiting for the sun to ripen me,
The wind to loosen me,
Gravity to set me free, all so I could fall,
To begin the cycle once again.
Now, I will never germinate,
But lay barren, trapped inside this bowl
With alien companions:
Hazelnuts in star shaped wrappings,
Acorns in their cups, pine cones smugly open
Their seeds scattered safely before being gathered.
My shine grows dull, as the days draw in.
© Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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