A creative piece written a few years ago to read aloud as a poem, and reformatted here into prose. The telltale signs of rhyme are there within the text. I think they become more noticeable as the piece progresses.

Remembering

I’m remembering, remembering

My fifth of Novembering.

Far back when I was small I can recall standing by the window waiting for dark to come. Waiting for dad to come so he could light the fire that my brother and I had built In the back garden

The warm kitchen smelled of onions and hot dog sausages and there was freshly baked Parkin

Then in he came, with sparklers and rockets. And matches.

It was time.

The lighting of the bonfire was a ceremony. Dad checked our twisted newspaper sticks . We had done a good job, he said. Which way is the wind blowing?Is the wood dry? Will it light?

We made a Guy once with a sawdust filled brown bag for a head and legs from Mam’s old stockings, filled wi’ straw. We paraded it around the estate on me brother’s go cart. Not to collect money like they do now. It was just for fun.

Dad tied him to an old wooden chair and threw him onto the pyre.

The bonfire was lit.

With the Guy on top and with the twigs and prunings from the garden it was all of three foot high, and soon the chair leg crackled into flames, lighting the Guy’s face, and ours, with an orange glow.

Then the sparklers. So young, but allowed, this one night to hold real fire in gloved fingers.  Arms length, terrified but squealing with delight, making swirly patterns in the dark night.

I’m remembering, remembering

My fifth of Novembering.

When you got older you’d go with yer mates to a bonfire the big lads had built behind the estate with wooden gates they found in old folks gardens. Hinges and latches still on

And we all took summat:
Taters in foil, and chestnuts
Sausages in bread crusts
And Bonfire toffee

T’Big lads mucked about, played the fool chucking bangers onto t’fire; Pulling red hot sticks out to light their Park Drive

In the shadows, rosy cheeked  
You could get cosy with a lad
It was more exciting than sparklers
Terrified, but squealing with delight inside
You forgot all the warnings
About playing with fire

 Ah- I’m remembering, remembering
My fifth of Novembering.

 One year, One of the lads on our street lit a rocket in his hand and it blew off his middle finger and another year, someone at school had a Jumping Jack go off in his pocket. They called ‘im Cracker Knacker after that

I’m remembering, remembering
My fifth of Novembering.

Later It was all community bonfires and fabulous firework displays put on by the council. Mind, You had to wrap up warm. There was no chance of getting near the fire.You could buy a hot dog and a hot drink and the onions smelled good but it wasn’t as magical

Now – I’m just part of the grouchy older generation hating the firework noise outside my dark window It’s like bloody Beruit and it’s not even November yet. And where did they get the money? That’s not even a Guy. It’s your little brother wi’ a monkey mask on. They ought to stop all this firework nonsense. All that money going up in sparks. Where do their parents think they are?

But…

Every November the sixth
Cloud damp and fog dense
I walk in the park
To find rocket sticks
And sparkler wires as evidence –
And I recall being small

And I’m remembering, remembering

Fifth of Novembering.