Blast

A Blast

It burst into the county lane on a cotton‑cloud day,
a sudden, aching boom that rattled the church spire and nipped the lawn‑mower.

Smoke curled like the smoke of a London fire‑hose,
mist entwining the hedges, a faint scent of gun‑powder and seaweed,
the colour of the preview screen at the cinema’s marquee, bright and blaring.

The old farmer with his spanner gripped the steering wheel of his van;
he laughed, “That’s a blast!” – a crackle of joy in a stiff‑lipped village.

The children, cheeks flushed, ran as if flung by a draft, their giggles a soundtrack
to the air’s rough, spiced touch, a scent of rain on stone.

There’s a notion of a brilliance we call blast when the guitar strings snap like a
cricket bat over the finishing line, or a crowd cheers until the lights go dark.

And yet, the aftermath is small and tidy – a shiver that wanders contraption
through the cul‑de‑sac, a smudge on the windows, and the echo of the triumph
in the muffin swirl still on the kitchen counter.

A blast in the British tongue is all about that thrilling rupture,
a brief egg‑white flicker that makes the ordinary feel favourite again.

So let the wind whir, let the sirens sing –
a blast is simply a moment of radiant, electric life
in the English moor, beneath the moonlit saga of the sky.