Fifth of November

Somehow, every year it came.

Miracle that rain would cease,

gales would moderate to gentle breezes,

before night-time’s performance.

Was my father an unheralded magician?

Did he compel wind and wet to serve him?

Under clearing skies, weather obeyed

providing dark canvas for family firework display

set at far end of our long upper garden

beyond fruit trees and flower bed border,

in front of brick wall between cultivation and tennis court,

rockets were set and bonfire erected.

After supper on that special evening

bonfire set blazing, newspaper stuffed suit guy burning

my father would take centre stage

with long touch paper he’d send rockets away

while Roman candles burst like flowers from earth,

Catherine wheels spun multi-coloured on poles,

traffic lights fired reds, yellows, greens,

jumping jacks snake-like wove light across grass.

This was my father as I rarely saw him

not as one among many bound by

duty, money and economic necessity.

Instead, creator bringing beauty

leaving me regretting the memory

not appreciating him in his complexity.

Those last three years of silence

clawing still as grief at what could have been

refuses to depart. May we now on 

continents a veil separates, find

our way back to peace and affirmation.

Thank you for passing on this legacy.

© Phil Kemp 2024