Thoughts of my grandfather mingle with the wind’s sad cadence, as it shakes my windows.

Acorns, fur cohns and conkers strew the forest floor. Many have fallen from the branches which overhang the pavement.

The feel of nature’s bounty in my coat pockets as I walk home. Conkers to be put away in drawers to harden, acorns for planting in grandfather’s garden.

You told me that weather cohns (you called the fur’s fruit that, or do I confuse the seeds with those of the pine tree?) open to signify fine weather and close to portend storms. Was it an old wive’s tale?

The acorn I planted in the garden which grew into a tree. You didn’t have the heart to tell me that, by chance a weed had rooted where, I hoped an oak would stand. .

I still have your cufflinks in a box, safe in a drawer.