We’d only seen her a week before. Appeared fine, cradling her cuppa as if a freshly-plucked apple, a library book chapter down on the little wooden table. You wouldn’t have thought it. It was hidden, like a forgotten photograph slipped inside a fading album. She laughed, the skin wilting around the fingers, the veins like roots sprouting from within. I was going to call when the phone rang, the shrill signal, that ugly brick of tragedy.
Written: October 2016. Explanation: To mark National Poetry Day on 6th October, I wrote 25 poems over the course of eight days, and sent one poem each to one of 25 of my Facebook friends. After some deliberation, I am now posting the poems on HP (in order of when they were written), albeit not all in one go. 'Firework' is poem one, for those of you who wish to read the series in full, in order. None of the poems are about their recipients. All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page. NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.