We stood, mittened hand in hand
at the foot of the allotment. Waiting
for explosions whilst Mum bustled
to and fro from the car,
tiptoeing between rows of leeks
whilst balancing a thermos of tea
and baked potatoes wrapped in foil.
We ripped into them, burning fingers,
lips and tongues; barely able to taste.

Earlier that day we had helped to pile
old furniture, fence panels and branches
to make a throne for Guy Fawkes.
Doused in paraffin, it explodes into light
at the touch of a match. Crackling into the heavens
as Guy burns, mounted on a chair leg.

Across in the east a petrol bomb
explodes; this time the whole street
is consumed by the blaze.
Children run from their houses.
Parents follow, dragging what they can
from the blaze. They have played this out
too many times before.

Another explosion and this time real flesh
burns atop the bonfire. Unlucky this time.
New screams echo into the night; terror,
sorrow, tempered for some with relief
that this time it is not their son, mother
or lover who burns.

It begins to rain, stealthily at first,
but soon rivulets turn to torrents.
We sulk as we squelch disconsolately towards the car
in wellies, fireworks abandoned. They give thanks
as the fire begins to gutter out.
At least possessions, unlike faces,
may be salvaged from the wreckage.