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.