and the dog creeps under the piano stool.

Missing the faded beauty of Autumn
we look for more colours as we step
into the murky mists of November.

Duffle-coated against the cold, we watch
the burning effigy of the man
whose memory is rekindled every year.

Lost 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 at the sky.

A bombardment to delight.

Rockets send clusters of stars to burst
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

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