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The chestnut tree kept its promise--
autumn again, as they lie in disarray,
invite me in a free for all, scoop up

beauties galore and I feel blessed,
from palm to pouch then snug, nestled,
high hopes of childhood regained--

skewered on string, the hagglers aloof,
from conker to conquered--alas a sudden
jolt at the airport’s stark warning

forbidding such frivolities. For the sake of peace,
I release them – as they join deplorables: lipsticks,
aerosols, scissors, all unknown substance

dispersed in the shrouded bin, all asunder:
obblyonkers, cheggies, those preloved but adrift,
no sanctuary as they’re deemed enemies of state,

and yet, in the Great War*, children’s small
hands gathered harvests of cordite *
converts for sovereign power demands.

Still today, I celebrate anew these gleamers
as they lie silent on earth– asking
of nothing more than the gifts they bring.

[Ian McMillan invites Menna to read the last verse in Welsh]

Ond heddiw, dathlaf y pefrion o’r newydd
wrth iddynt orwedd yn gyfain ar ddaear – heb ddwyn
na gofyn am ddim mwy na’u rhoddion mewn crwyn.

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