Smoke swirls upwards towards the stars
catching dry throats, running red eyes.
No smoke they say without any fire
but from our heap few flames arise;
raked leaves hold their moist life-blood
sap still sizzles in gathered wood.
Wheels anchored, pinned to upright posts
whirl, throw out multi-coloured sparks
like petals from fiery flowers, roses
whirring, fiercely circling the dark.
The hiss of matches held to rockets, blue fuses
fizz, and with a whizz break loose
from bottles, soar, burst in shattered light
to oohs and ahs from the crowd below;
red specks dying in the blackest night
float down as the smokey glow
erupts to resurrect the flare,
clearing the thickness from the air.
Fire ceremony over, darkness dispelled,
aproned priests appear bearing burnt
meat. Lured by the sight and smell
the faithful gather to be served
but rush indoors as cold drizzle starts.
Embers fizzle, smoke drifts up to the stars.