A WHISPER
REMEMBER
CHRISTMAS IS A WONDROUS TIME
TEA
AUTUMN FALLS AT OUR FEET
Poetry Poem
SUMMER
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CONKERS
Conkers, we call them,
The fruits of the
Common horse-chestnut tree,
Growing in spiked green shells
Till they ripen and fall free
They whiz through the air
And land with a sharp crack
Enough to smash the small shell
But the embedded nut is intact
Usually, eager little boys
Who are dying to play a game
Would climb the tall trees
To provoke and inflame
Collecting them in handfuls
And carrying home in sacks
To dry them and to choose
Which one will attack
For they are knotted on string
And fight in a battle
A 19th century game of power
Their opponent to rattle
For he is the champion
The winner, the mighty,
Who hits all the others
For they are frail and flighty
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