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?