For The Royal Fireworks Poem by Les Brighton

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.’

Rhododendrons rumble burgundy
Soar in scarlet
Or, across a clear pool
Boom with the muffled thunder
Of avalanching cream.
The quiet weir breathes richly like a rose.

The conductor today wears blue
With a white waistcoat.
On the path before me falls his baton’s shadow.

Is anyone else listening?