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We struggled along damp, smoke-filled streets;
leaves still summer green, 
a chilly breeze rustling some, turned golden early 
in anticipation of the fall.
Neil at one end of the log; 
me at the other.

Occasionally we paused our journey, rested;
took turns with the diminishing gobstopper;
and backward walking with the heavy branch.

Early October, our collecting started;
we had first-dibs on Ethel Jones' old settee,
two shabby chests of drawers,
about a mile of rotten fence,
branches collected from the woods,
assorted liberated shrubs,
and now, of course, a giant log.

We were to build 
the most monumental funeral pyre;
the street had ever seen,
topped with fabricated Guy,
long-wheeled from door to door
for a penny here or there.
It would be the biggest and the best,
standing proud in the bombed-out lot, 
that was our playground,
but once home to family and friends.

November fifth would come, 
the bonfire built, would fiercely burn;
cracking windows with the blistering heat
scorching paint on faded doors.
Part-cooked potatoes
thrown in the embers;
would later, held in hands 
be greedily eaten with a spoon;
steam rising from damp, woollen gloves.
Red noses, rosy fire burned cheeks,
sparklers waving patterns in the dark;
oohs, aahs; and gasps at fiery rockets,
whirling Catherine wheels and jumping jacks.

Then time for bed
Our grubby faces, 
smoked stenched hair and clothes
would last a week
'till bathday.


October Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh 
Date wrote: 03-October-2021

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