A night alive
with whistles and bangs,
shooting stars
and smoke that hangs
in the cold, crisp air.
The smell of cordite
and cinder toffee,
burning wood and sparks
that leap from the bonfire’s glare.
An effigy atop the pyre
comes alive as the flames
grow higher and hot timbers
crack as we celebrate
a son of York, who got caught
and lost the plot.
