Mum, she loves the bangs, the whizzes,
The sizzles and crackles as the fireworks
Network their way across the sky
In fleeting flames and burning capillaries,
Dispersing like daffodils in hurricanes, all of it
Mirrored in the gentle waters that wrap the canal
Boats in cool, cold black.
She looks up like a little sapling to sunlight,
Drawn to the technicolour wonder as if seeing
Oz for the first time on the big screen,
Popcorn, toffees and sweets,
Aged thirteen.

Dad has none of it. He flips to the sports,
Angling his broadsheet to the lamp,
Alone he’s sat in the cold, damp and mouldy basement,
Underground without a sound.
He’s just like the ducks on the river, who meander
Through life swift and silent.
No one would know he was there, until
He quacks for a coffee.