Rainbow by Tim Veater
thrill my little arrow to the music of the rainbow's arc
high up in the heavens
arching o'er the prospect dark
triumphant I adore you lofty, mighty up above,
pouring down your molten glory
in an act of sovereign love
under the vault of heaven
this little earthly span in contrast falls
e'en on my humble dwelling
where so much of me still calls.
I sweep my arm above my head
each finger leaves a trail of joy
each in a different colour lingers
fiery red through orange,
yellow, green and blue
indigo and violet deep
my wrist and elbow have to do
for artist's brush and artist's cleft
which the rock of ages left
when the sodden earth could not endure
like the strings of a guitar with seven strung
seven days and seven dials
seven arches, seven isles
seven churches, seven seals
seven trumpets, seven peals
seven bowls all upturned now
leaking spirits all below
from land to sea are connecting
in one great shimmering dome
Saint Michael on his rocky mount
to little place I call my home
triumphal arch it welcomes me
greater by far than victor's cavalcade
an emperor's parade in ancient Rome
(the Colosseum echoes to the roar)
an Arc de Triumph in November
to those remembered, those that fall
in honour of the sun and moon
but suddenly, as silently as it appeared
the apparition fades and dies and is no more
November 5th 2025: I guess Guy would rather forget it. His shakey signature following terrible torture made a deep impression on me as a kid. How humans turn horror into amusement to make reality bearable. As you say, as kids we thought it all fun, and looked forward to it. A couple stick in the memory. For one we did a clear-out of the Mill House stables and the 2nd WW gas masks seemed to come from another age. Another year on the land where Paul Hunt's house now stands, then cultivated by my dad, a similar incident occured to that which you related, namely a whole box went up unintentionally. I think one was in my dad's trouser pocket! It added to the drama but deprived us of the sights and sounds. Funny how I can only remember those two, though there must have been many more. They always seemed to involve a sense of anti-climax - a sort of post coital depression - particularly the next day when we checked out the burnt-out remains of the bonfire and the sodden blackened fireworks. Searching the fields to discover where the rocket sticks has landed, provided another adventure. Rockets were the exciting realm of children's magazines, as somewhere far away, the real ones were being tested on the frontiers of science and our planet, with the Moon in view. Four minutes was all we had if they flew our way in anger but we put that to the back of our minds. As with Guy Fawlkes we turned the awful reality into play and watched Star Trek.
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