Fireworks

Fireworks

Fireworks

It was Guy Fawkes’ night, but they were for you, 
the sparklers, rockets, golden pyramids,
the Roman candles and the Catherine wheels.
I’d like to show you how I aimed each one
at the cold stars above the Devon downs;
how luminous silk spools unravelled fast
as if propelled on my condensing breath;
how flaming fusillades broke through the dark
and, meeting constellations, split – like ice
in Arctic waters – to a million shards.
I’d tell how some shook dusty tails and some,
like real-life spaceships, shed combusting husks;
how mines expostulated in the dung
then eloquently rose among magenta sparks.
My dear, to tell the truth, I scarcely saw
those flares. I ran head-down through pasture,
a weak-beamed miner’s lamp strapped to my brow,
as dynamite discharged its smoke all round.
I fumbled over gaudy cardboard bombs,
and poised explosives in long plastic tubes;
I lost track of the times my fingers struck
a match and held it to a stubby fuse.
Detonation after detonation –
I sensed when it was time to run away
yet wanting to be sure the wick was lit,
I paused, alone, to see the sparks
begin to flicker forth in the damp grass,
slim needles tacking seams to fit the dark
while heat undressed the restless powder core.