New Year's Eve
We've come to watch the fireworks at the park,
And stand there gossiping quietly in the dark
Till – whiplash jets of gold, cascades of white:
Glittering silver sparkles spangle the night
With rumble, crumple, boom as echoing thunder
Bounces back from the clouds, re-echoing under
High heaven's ceiling, shudders and threatens to crack
The dome of the sky, and then reverberates back
To tilt and rock our park, and tumble and smack
Our ears with bound and rebound; flicker of flak,
Electric crackle and racket of rockets, mad flash
And flare as they fly up steep, whizzing dizzy, and splash
The tall clouds with colour. Lazy and slow,
Huge flowers stretch open over the sky and grow
Into supernovas wheeling with vertigo.
Delicate sprays and fernery tracery follow,
Yet at last colour crumbles, fading, hollow
Thuds muffled, baffled. Residue burns
And winks out. Smoke thickens. Old darkness returns.
If you've a comment on this poem, Paul Stevens would like to hear it.