Bonfire Night Poem by Ernestine Northover

How eager are the children as they look up into the sky,
Reacting to a theatre of sound, colour and light,
A euphoria of expectation, the holding of breath,
The lighting of the bonfire, on top sits the awesome guy,
The igniting in the centre, then the flames that glow so bright,
And in all this heat the guy will meet his death.

The sudden whoosh as the bonfire now takes front stage,
The roaring flames devouring the stack with energy so strong,
Heat growing with each lick from those great feasting tongues,
Crackling, spitting, shooting sparks, turning violent with rage,
A deep orange glow reflected in the faces of the staring throng,
Smoke rising into the hair, the eyes, the nose and then the lungs.

With the fireworks carefully set up, the show can now begin,
With noise from all the pyrotechnics, assailing the ears,
What brilliant hues flash before illuminated lively eyes,
The cheering becomes louder, quickly rising to a din,
Then the cold night enfolds your body as midnight nears,
And the mighty fire, mighty no longer, crumbles and dies.

A pile of ash is all that is left,
The bonfire, guy, fireworks, all are gone,
Like a dream, into your memory.