When we were children,
we played November’s game.
By threading Conkers on a string.
Fighting battles.
Following rules.
No pulling out!
Take the pain.
‘Big boys don’t cry’.
When we were children.
Some played that game.
By seeking ways to bend the rules.
Learning lessons.
How Hardened-shells would show no marks,
and naive armour withstood the shock,
of falling from the Chestnut tree.
The Eleventh Hour.
Of the Eleventh day.
We Remembered them.
The Fallen.
The manufactured shells.
How their Altered-Hardness made the
brittle world.
Broken bodies: lay-waste the ground.
The softened skins in nature’s form
withstood the shock: of the falling.
And seeds were sown from Chestnut trees.
So we, their children;
could play November’s game.
By threading Conkers on a string.
ART JOHSTONE
Waikino, New Zealand
