and the dog creeps under thr piano stool.
Missing the faded beauty of Autumn
we look for more colours as we step
into the murky mists of November.
Duffle-coated aginst the cold, we watch
the burning effigy of the man
whose memory is rekindled, every year.
Historic drama put to the torch.
Catherine wheels and sparklers
entrance the young. Squibs and jumping
crackers provide the edge, Echoing
sounds and sparks fire the sky.
A bombardment to delight.
Rockets send clusters of stars bursting
into their own beautiful but fleeting galaxies,
expanding to nothingness.
Is our own planet just part of a firework display,
wondrous but short-lived?
where will WE find a piano stool?
© Marion Sharville