They have set the bonfire alight.
The smoke-whorled dark
smells of cloves and ginger,
treacle and brown ale.
At the foot of the pyre
spuds and chestnuts roast.
Grannies spread a red-checked cloth
over the grass.
A small boy’s mouth is ringed
with parkin crumbs,
while the other children
race around the flames,
dodging sparks and shrieking.
The dance begins.
As though some satyr’s pipe
has silenced them all,
each child stands stricken
until one, more daring than the rest,
begins his prancing around the fire.
All of the children hold hands
and form a ring.
The adults join and dance
behind the children, swaying with deliberation,
circling right then left,
backward and forward.
Silhouettes and shadows, gyrating.
The pace quickens.
A pagan passion pulses.
Lovers break the circle,
meet, conjoin and part.
The Guy, consumed
unnoticed by the flames,
retches button teeth
and spews old sock brains.
His ravaged form bends
like the Devil’s hump,
engendering primeval terror.
And so it ends.
Embarrassed adults
fasten buttons and zips,
tug trousers up
and smooth down skirts.
The children feast on toffee
and burnt marshmallows.
Grannies gather the remains of the feast
in the red-checked cloth.
Fathers bank the fire then stop,
watching, as with one last shudder,
the Guy collapses
in orgasmic fury.
The men shrug, smile and wander
together to the pub.
