11th of July

   I

Through the slats of the garden fence I watch

the little gunmen run by, the thrill of power

glittering their eyes, their shorts half-falling down

around their scuffed calves. It’s war and then it’s

teatime and then it’s out to watch the bonfires,

pellet-guns stuffed into their waistbands.

The pallets have been piling up for weeks; a lanky boy

scales the rotten planks, skelfing his palms

to reach the top, shading his face from the sun

as he plants a swaggering tricolour. Tonight

the air reeks of booze; cans tossed through the air,

beer-foam chemtrails in the night sky. It’s lit

and heat roars from the tower, illuminates the red-faced

crowd: green, white, and gold flickering across their eyes.

   II

The golden pillar rises, licking up everything:

the old sofas, the extra flags thrown on at the last

minute, the bedsheets spread and spray painted:

a circle with a bullseye, All Taigs Are Targets,

picket signs wilting, faces blackening, all of it

devoured by the frenzy of the blistering spire.

Through the slats of my bedroom blinds I watch

the bonfire burn. Only this time it’s not a bonfire.

They’ve burnt a bus. I go past the next day,

take it all in: the charred seats, plastic dripping

from the traffic lights – silent watchmen whose colours

still change from green to red to green –

charcoal petals twisting upwards from blown-out

windows, and ashes that glitter in lumps on the tarmac.  

   III

They’re getting younger every year. The bonfire’s

getting taller. To think I didn’t know that bonfire

was once bone fire. They’ve always been raised

like this, on violence. That patch of the field is permanently

damaged, the grass no longer grows green but grey.

There’s a long, black stain, like a shadow, on the road

where the bus stopped and didn’t leave again: the past

cast into the present. It’s bonfire night again,

but I sleep through it like a bad dream, the traffic light

switching, ghostly, in my mind as I fall asleep

from red to green to red to green. Someone fell off

the bonfire last night. They’re getting too tall,

the kids. Too tall to play with toy guns.