New Year's Eve We've come to watch the fireworks at the park, And stand there gossiping quietly in the dark Till – whiplash jets of gold, cascades of white: Glittering silver sparkles spangle the night With rumble, crumple, boom as echoing thunder Bounces back from the clouds, re-echoing under High heaven's ceiling, shudders and threatens to crack The dome of the sky, and then reverberates back To tilt and rock our park, and tumble and smack Our ears with bound and rebound; flicker of flak, Electric crackle and racket of rockets, mad flash And flare as they fly up steep, whizzing dizzy, and splash The tall clouds with colour. Lazy and slow, Huge flowers stretch open over the sky and grow Into supernovas wheeling with vertigo.   Delicate sprays and fernery tracery follow, Yet at last colour crumbles, fading, hollow Thuds muffled, baffled. Residue burns And winks out. Smoke thickens. Old darkness returns. Paul Stevens If you've a comment on this poem, Paul Stevens would like to hear it.