I'm sitting in the bath, this winter night
With candle lit and window wide, no clock
to indicate the hour, just the mist,
the steam of boilers blazing in the cold.
No one great rocket leads the charge, no salvo calls the time
instead a slowly rising tide, the organ grinder turns
and then the sky is peppered with a thousand fireworks
let loose upon the placid clouds, from all directions blazing.
There's pitter-patter, jibber-jabber
paradiddles of fizzles and thwacks,
a 3D city sound stage
of undulating acne.
of undulating acne.
A million tin tacks jab the air,
dispatched from bargain multipacks
that we can rest assured
all follow BS7114.
all follow BS7114.
The city pops, mellifluous melee
that never stops but, shunning pattern, fades
and then, from park or street or patio,
ignites again, a cacophonous roar
which then recedes, though bangs and whizzes still
pursue the skies. For me, I loved the chance
to join my city's joy, from my bathtub
with candle lit and window wide, to hear
prolonged and tremulous report
the exultation of this manmade schism;
it was to my surprise, and was, to my surprise,
to my delight
