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 nuts ,
Past the raft-shaped rotting wooden bridge
With gaps and moss on its slippery trunks,
To the bikes , 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 -
Eating Chestnuts
1988?
When I was a child we used to walk every autumn to a little chestnut wood. It was usually a cold day with a low sun and autumnal colours, and the wood would be closed-in with patches of light amongst the trees. We'd spend maybe an hour stamping on green husks and wrenching them off, wandering around from tree to tree, before eventually cycling home where we'd put the chestnuts under the grill and sit around in the warmth of the house feeling cosy.
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