Two Conker Trees (Poetry)

I know where they stood solid
on opposite sides of a turning
shying their harvest of hard shiners
across the tarmac every autumn
since I can remember. Their green sputnik
cosies cracked open to release each pilot
seed into freefall — no whirling parachute
for them. They hit and rolled into the road
to be casualties of traffic. Or if luckier fell
on grass verge and nestled gleaming perfect
until plucked up by passing school kids
gleeful and keen as squirrels who pocketed
them like the treasure that they were.

Those two trees must have produced
thousands of contenders in their time.
The carefully boiled in vinegar then skewered
through and strung contestants of
so many playground fights —
that tradition all but gone.

Both trees condemned and felled within
a season’s too short space. One leaves
no trace — grassed over. But the other
has a marker still. They left a section
of its trunk carved crudely to a seat.
A bizarre idea — uncomfortable
for those of us who remember how
it was — its familiar shape against
the sky and the unfailing annual
bombing of brown fruit.

That purpose thwarted by
a greater conqueror.