A time for scrunching through the drifts of rusty, swirling leaves and for scrumping apples from the tiny orchard through the thorny hedge. A time for picking mushrooms in the early morning fields; for revelling in colours and inhaling sickly smells – stalking toadstools in the wild wood.

 A time for magic trees – gone the spread of leafy hands, the towering spikes of glitsy flowers – their bounty now for leaf mould, chestnuts by the fire and for conkers, burnished brown.

 Do you remember slitting those pricky green hides looking for a hardy warrior within; the twisted skewer heated on the gas, gently pushed with scorching fingers, through the core; the threaded hairy string completed with a trusty knot?

 Time at last to toss a coin; to wrap the twine around your fist; steady, aim and thwack. The tournament is under way – winter frosts and snowballs yet to come, like virtual entertainments that are boys’ games – now.

©Bryan Thomas

31.07.14