To Conker Her Fears

It was maybe an hour from dusk. A little girl was running ahead of her mother, kicking all of the yellow and brown leaves out of her way as she came.

“Where are all the conkers?” she asked me.

“Conkers?

“Yeah, there’s all these leaves but no conkers!” Her cheeks were red with either all of the running she’d been doing or the cold air. Maybe a combination of the two.

I gestured towards the bottom of the hill. “There’s a conker tree down there, on Wood Street. Right to the bottom then turn left.”

She whirled around. “MUMMY!” She didn’t have to shout as her mother wasn’t really that far behind. “THERE’S A CONKER TREE DOWN THERE!”

Maybe her mother didn’t really need to hear that. I shrugged apologetically. “It’s about ten minutes away.”

She nodded her thanks and they went on their way. Or rather the girl did, speedily, and her mother followed the trail she left through the foliaged pathway.

That was one thing I missed. When my kids were primary age we used to pass the horse chestnut tree that I’d referred to on the school run, and at this time of year we’d forage for any fallen conkers along the way. Especially after a previous night’s storm.

But the kids are older now. High school age. When I was in high school conkers were still a thing. The playground was the battleground, and the more fair-minded (or more likely the naive) among us would come up against the devious cheats who had strengthened their conkers by baking them in the oven or coating them in nail varnish. Ways and means, with the assistance of conspiring adults.

That was in the days before the schools went on a health and safety overdrive and either banned them outright or insisted safety goggles had to be worn when playing.

So now they’re not a thing.

The last time any interest was shown in conkers in my house was when my daughter had come across the claim that spiders were scared of them. Before you could say show me the scientific proof there was a defensive line of them along her window ledge and more strategically placed upon her bedside cabinet.

They lasted until the night she encountered a spider that was big enough to juggle them.

Still The Seasonal Vibes: Three Photos

I took this first photograph while waiting for a funeral cortège, a funeral we couldn’t attend. The mother of a friend had passed after catching Covid, despite being jabbed. We’d spoke with her once in our town centre, not long after lockdown had ended, and she was afraid of catching the virus. Despite following all advice and taking all necessary precautions, she caught it and having underlying health issues sadly succumbed.

My wife and I were waiting the results of our own PCR tests and so couldn’t attend the funeral. But, with it being local, we wanted to stand at the cemetery gates, away from everybody else, to show our respects as the hearse and family cars arrived. As we waited in the car, sheltering from the rain, the wind scattered leaves across the windscreen and this one caught for a few seconds.

The dark day had persuaded the streetlight sensor that night was falling.

The smell of wet leaves, that mulchy, earthy smell. This bench, on the cemetery edge, was waiting for Spring to bring with it regular occupants, to maybe bask in early sunshine and watch the world awaken. It helps to think of cycles and the natural order of things.

It reminded me a little of the more famous, Autumn bench that those four Swedes once sat on. I’ve actually seen that bench in Stockholm. Perhaps this one would attract someone of equal renown. Perhaps it already had. Who but the bench would know?

Another day and another break in the clouds. My wife, son and I all received negative results, but my daughter tested positive and so she’s isolating. With my Mum living next door, unable to remain out of our home due to her Alzheimer’s, we are having to navigate all that.

So far so good.

We nipped into Middleton and, in the midst of a deluge, the sun came out and I took this photograph. It could have been better but I was too slow – by the time I’d got my phone out the sun was already slipping behind a cloud.

At this time of year, a time of change and lengthening shadow, you have to be fast to catch any light.

Pumpkin

It’s an old one, but that time of year keeps rolling around. Pumpkin

Pumpkin

from my poetry blog

Sold On The Idea Of Autumn

Autumn Arrives Tonight

November

from my poetry blog

November

Before We Fall

While you are in Middleton get some black bags

It was a text from my wife who was in work. How the hell did she know I was in Middleton?

I swear she has some kind of track and trace programme that the government should look into because it just blows their billion pound effort away.

I did as I was told. I got the black bags.

That’s the secret of a good marriage.

Then I called for a coffee in McDonald’s where I could hear a man complaining to himself in the booth next to mine.

Fucking sick of this now. Where’s your mask? Stand here. Stand there. We don’t do that. Put your mask back on. Sit here. There’s no ketchup. Wait there. If you can’t taste salt on your chips it’s a Coronavirus symptom bollocks.

The last line rose in volume as it neared its end. I couldn’t help smiling in private at his public fatigue.

I think a lot of us are losing the stamina for this now, and some are really struggling.

There was an elderly man in there, crying and apologising for being a nuisance. The prospect of another lockdown had filled him with dread, for he had only one family member to speak with who would have to isolate. This was the only place he could come for some human contact, and embarrassed by his tears he made to leave.

The woman who was seating the customers tried to reassure him:

“You’re not a nuisance at all. Sit down and I’ll get you a drink. Ignore what the government says, as long as you’ve got your gloves and your mask on you’re alright. You need to keep coming in every morning to see us.”

That was true, but if this place was forced to go delivery only again that option would no longer be open to him. It’s a trade off, catching Coronavirus v your mental health. Not everyone had the fortitude and the people around them to cope with this once again.

I left the restaurant and made my way home along a path that gradually rose away from the town centre in a steep climb. At the top of the hill, where the slope evened out, was a tree well on its way to its autumn transformation. I paused a while to both take it in and get my breath back.

There were still many leaves to fall, and those that had were stirring in a cool breeze.

Although it looked familiar, we’d not seen an autumn like this one before. But they will keep coming around and there’s a reassurance in that, even as they age us.

We are still here, all of us, doing the same old things, climbing hills, gasping for breath, and little by little shedding our leaves.

Autumn

The Change Of Things; The Way Of Things

He was aware of the season’s arrival, was conscious of the changes, but only in a rudimentary way.

For he didn’t know the names of the trees, nor of the birds, but he knew that those geese were preparing to leave, without him even knowing that they were geese.

They were obeying the same instinctive compulsion that they always did, long before anyone named them, and those birds didn’t even know that they were geese, either, for they just recognised each other, as they did in the times when other people, long gone, called them by different names, names now forever forgotten and lost.

But the days remain the same, the signs remain the same, it’s the language that rises and falls. It has always been our wont to label the landscape and creatures around us. Make things familiar and relatable.

He watched them go, taking to the skies, never knowing where they would alight, but trusting deeply in the way of things, and the day that they’d return.

Empty Playground