Time to Remember

Guy Fawkes' Night

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.

The end of the pier

Salt-tarnished, red-rust metal pillars

stagger beneath the weight of years

carrying century old timbers into the sea

never to return.  I walk the lonely mile

the gaps between the boards

growing ever wider.

I become liquid, seeping through

between those gaps, sliding away

from their grasp, plunging into the water

far below to mingle with the ocean swell,

to ride as Neptune's daughters
upon white horses.