Bonfire night

The other night was bonfire night, which coincided with the beginning of lockdown 2.0. I went for a walk while explosions happened all around me in the sky. The evening air was still and smoky; it was like I’d walked back through a veil of time. How the lamp light filtered through the autumn leaves and was held by the smog reminded me of period dramas, like in The Crown when they fill a dampened room with fake smoke to give it that stale, liturgical look of old Britain. There was no one else on the street. A blacked-out Range Rover stealthily crept up beside me, before uneventfully rolling away, perhaps the driver was looking at the fireworks too. Shots rang out! Peals of fuchsia swerved up from behind a brick wall to crackle into sparks and fade out over a garden wall. There was a bottom-heavy moon that night and its creamy glow effused in contrast to the vivid smattering of lights.