Bonfire Boyes

Cold, dark, damp, rubbing hands
Stamping feet, eyes wide, noses red
Down the street light grows,
The Boyes are coming

A banner flutters in the wind amid a wall of steadily advancing flames
A roaring river of fire, a tide of painted faces
Illuminated by the restless light, laugh and shout
“We burn to remember” branded in crimson red
Onto a cloth as dark as the shadows beyond the flames
Smuggler, red and white stripes, singing
“Sussex by the sea” with the scout band
Taunt soldiers and kings, who, smiling nobly
Ignore the bait and walk on, flaming standards raised

A host of burning crosses arrives
The wave of heat breaks upon the crowd
Releasing fingers and toes from night’s icy grip
Igniting flames of emotion in the stoniest hearts
Cheeks burn red with the warmth of the fires
And with centuries of anger for a town betrayed
Grief for the loss of the martyred seventeen
Respect for the courage they showed
Pride in those who have stood and still stand
Love in gathering to remember
Determination never to forget
They march on into the night, an unstoppable force
Nothing will stand against the fire in their hearts.

Clattering, like a rifle firing,
Shatters the silence of the solemn moment
Remains of a large smoking totem arrive
Now only fuel for the bonfires
Behind it, aloft, a great burning key
Grants the Boyes the freedom of the town
For better or for worse
A group of smugglers, yellow and black
Make the most of it
Lighting crackers from their torches
Holding them for a count of three
Then dropping them at the feet of an unsuspecting neighbour
Or inches from the crowd, revelling in the screams
A policeman, outnumbered and unarmed, watches on
As the Boyes do as they please.

Now the crowds disperse, guided by the beacons of the Boyes
Towards bonfires that look like funeral pyres on the distant hills
Leaving the bitter, stinging taste of ash and smoke
Cold, returning, numbs fingers and toes
Pales faces until all around look like phantoms
Ghastly masks in a haunted town
Ash from a thousand fires falls white as snow
Onto a bed of blood red cracker paper
Lifted like poppy petals in the sighing wind
For one last dance along the empty street.