For The Royal Fireworks
Azaleas crackle and spit
Like a fire of twigs
Or a summer-full of broom-pods on a day of heat.
Their tiny fists unclench, palm up
And one by one
The fingered buds snap open into colour and scent.
It is a thing to drown the eyes,
To make the ears ring if heard too closely:
‘The bush was burned with fire but not consumed.’