My sister's "My first chemistry set"
gave up its tub of yellow sulfur
dad's art supplies relinquished
charcoal sticks that
whispered between twists
of grease proof paper.

Saltpeter was elusive
for a boy of ten
but big Tom's brother
was even bigger
and he had a thing
for my sister.

Pocket money depleted
all favours called in
hidden in the garden shed
I measured, spooned and ground
mixed and stirred and
pounded and kept my powder dry.

Lighter fuel from the pantry
cardboard tubes from the bin
boot laces from the wardrobe
no homework was ever lavished
with such schoolboy
tongue in cheek concentration.

For weeks the neighbourhood dogs
and cats grew jumpy at the parade
of assorted experimental munitions
that fizzed and popped and spat
until the day arrived
for my dreams to be realised.

But what if it finally didn't work
could all my dreams fall flat
what if my plans just fizzled out?
I needed an edge, some insurance
I needed money for more munitions
a box of big bangs for my bucks.

And after the planning and
intrigue the plotting and the graft
the big night arrived
the bonfire was alight
my first and last Guy Faukes
sat upon his pyre.

My father was not a violent man
he didn't swear or cus
he replanted the row of blackberry
bushes, repaired the fence
and once his eyebrows grew back again
he forgave me,
I think.