the Bonfire

 

It would be at the back end of summer.

A dry spell, with luck,

before the chore of timetables pressed in.

 

And long before we thought

to worry about emissions.

Nobody had a carbon footprint then.

 

To be fair, he would wait

until late afternoon. Time enough

for neighbours to have their washing in.

 

Dad was not a man for compost.

 

Heedless of their nature, all arisings

got higgledy-piggledy piled

on a heap. Some years, two.

 

mown grass

weeds     hedge clippings

spent blooms     fallen fruit      

tired tomato stems

pruned twigs     deadwood branches

raked-up leaves     dug-out roots

 

Wheelie bin collection not yet a thing.

 

Out of this raw material

we would fashion a chest-high pyre,

ramshackle but well-balanced.

 

Laid with care, unaided by firelighters.

 

From a scrunched-up newspaper base

upwards the kindling grew.

We kept the green stuff to one side

 

speculated on effigies,

which Orangeman or Tory grandee

might deserve to burn.

 

Talked about the new school year. Mine, not his.

 

Lighting-up time: we’d fetch matches,

blow whole lungfuls of air

into the hesitant, firefly heart

 

and dance half-blind around the smoke.

When flames took hold, finding what else we could

to feed a blazing mouth.

 

old cardboard boxes

rotten fencing

broken furniture

 

Each armful magnified its hunger.

 

Overnight, we’d damp the core with grassy sods,

let acrid billows fill the sky.

Look for embers glowing still next morning.

 

vii. 2026