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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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