Over the convent wall, the tree hung its proboscis-like branches, laden with walnuts. We’d strop them with school belts, split back starchy green coverings, and trample the caseings underfoot.
“Don’t eat them – the witch is looking” warned one of us and all eyes would glance towards the small, dim window, where a dummy face pressed unblinking at the huddle of young foragers.
Hunger usually got the better of superstition especially out of sight of the witch’s protean magic but on occasion my stomach would churn at the notion that the creamy convolutions were proof of the old lady’s head-shrinking abilities.
Now I’m ageing like a seedy wallflower in the corner of a smart London square. But I am not alone and there is a walnut tree too. It taps staccato on the glass when the wind is in the west and lulls with a midnight waltz.
A 4th of July without fireworks with 11 of the word choices for Wordle #116