Marla stops, stoops,
picks a chestnut from the path.
I love the feel of them.
It’s a shame the season ends so quickly,
isn’t it?
Before you know where you are
they wrinkle up and go all wrong.
Like people, I suppose.
She pockets her find.
I reach down,
curl my fingers around
a flat-edged conker,
then find another, and another,
collect until my pockets bulge.
I like them too, I admit,
but Marla is already ahead of me
at the crossing.
I run to catch up,
to stop her stepping into the road.
She looks surprised to see me at her side.
Hello again, she says.
Now isn’t it nice to be together like this?