It’s bonfire night and the sky
is full of crackles and bangs,
brightly coloured lights.
The damp November air;
full of gunpowder and
the smell of fires
Oh how I love this atmosphere.
If only I had someone to tell about
‘our penny for the guy’
or the terrific bonfires we built.
I have the honour of lighting it,
with lighted match, hands shaking,
searching for dry paper.
Then little fires start to build inside;
the first smell of smoke
as wood starts to light,
this is just the beginning alright.
‘It’s lit! it’s lit!’ everyone shouts.
I remember the flames,
that licked the sleepers dry,
swirling bright yellow flames,
leaping higher and higher,
‘can’t you just feel that fire!’
The heat on my face,
‘ look my coat is steaming!’
Excited faces all around,
Dad saying ‘be careful son.
‘Don’t get too near that fire
or that air bomb that didn’t go off,
it could explode at any second!’
Don’t worry Dad, I’m alright.
(never felt better in fact)
This is definitely the best night,
It is just so brilliant it is.
Oh if only I was still a kid,
I’d be outside right now with my friends,
eyes wide open trying to take it all in,
ears primed; ready for the big bangs,
deciding which firework to light next.
Not sitting here enjoying my memories
of November the fifth’s gone by—
Just sat at my computer, writing this.
by Simon Icke. copyright 2009
more of Simon’s poem can be found on the Tring People website: