In the glade
           sweet chestnut
heavy with fruit
           as yet unripe
early days
           in late summer
the spiny cupules
           familiar to my fingers
pockets of childhood
           memories carried
in the blood
           of forays into
the unkempt woodlands
           where squirrels
still roam freely

How sweet
           roasted on
the open fire
           that burned
in the hearth
           so dear to the heart

John Lyons


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