Beams in the skip
are fractured, grey
as the bones of children,
three to a grave.
Doorstep mothers, aprons
flowered, re-housed
in citified concrete,
their potted plants flaring,
not offering gossip
when winter’s bleached
all colour, clotted
sap in the stalks,
they lifeless, brittle
Night crackles colour.
Your children bounce
around the bonfire.
They shout for lighting
the last of the fireworks.
Now. It must be done now,
before fire flips into ash,
before flattening smoke
smothers the grass.
Standing in shadow
under a dimming moon,
I watch their faces rise
while rockets explode
a shivering rainfall
above the trees.
Stars twitch out,
denatured by fog
as acrid silence hovers.
Behind us the cats
call for their meal;
the radio hums
through nude rooms.
