November, with its frost and smells, br Brings fond memories flooding back, br Of the last bonfire party at my grandma's, br Before she passed away. br The night was tingling and alive, br With excitement and expectations. br Even Grandad, usually grumpy, br Chuckled as he lit the fire. br Paraffin made the wood and old crates br Flare up quickly and light our eager faces br As the sparklers were handed round. br Then the barrage of colours and sounds began. br Catherine wheels scorched orange holes in the air, br Roman candles made us cower in delight, br Fountains sprayed the lawns with glitter, br But we stopped for supper half-way through; br Jacket potatoes, hot-dogs and onions, br Mushy peas and mint sauce and hot soup, br Then red and sticky toffee apples. br Great-Grandma watched safely from indoors, br Excited as us at ninety by the show. br The frost got thicker and our breath cloudier, br But we noticed neither, nor cared. br The efflorescent rockets and earth-shaking br Bangers took us with them, br Until the last one finally died. br Tired feet were dragged home after goodnights, br Thoughts of explosions and tinsel colours br Filling our heads. br Fireworks never last long enough for children. br Neither do grandparents.