For all things historical or should that be hysterical!
The bonfires of deliverance.
Every November the Fifth we celebrate Bonfire Night here in the UK, “Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot” so says the rhyme but does this celebration still have any significance today? A good excuse for lighting a fire, setting off some fireworks and enjoying a cold and often wet autumn evening outside. As a child I looked forward to this event and we did the history of it at school but even I thought how odd it was to burn Guy Fawkes when he was actually hanged and worse. The bonfires being lit were at the time in London in 1605 a celebration of the act of deliverance for King James’ life and the defeat of a catholic conspiracy to put the King’s daughter Elizabeth on the throne as a catholic monarch. The fireworks are the gunpowder put to a different use to entertain the people rather than destroy the Monarchy. And well poor old Guy is burnt as originally it was an effigy of the Pope that was set alight for this religious and not pagan ceremony.
If only they had known,
That their cover would be blown,
A conspiracy hatched at that time,
To kill the monarch was a crime,
Alarm there was to shout,
Treason abounds there is no doubt,
For Walkers letter there was to show,
That plot against Parliament down below,
A mercenary called Fawkes was caught,
With Barrels of gunpowder he had brought,
To be interrogated as a traitor,
A fate worse than death expected later,
Broken to confess by his hand,
Who was complicit in this band,
Of conspirators who believed all was good,
And tried to raise a brotherhood,
But they were few and far between,
And then dispersed from that hunting scene,
To leave those left to count the cost,
Of that Jesuit cause now lost,
Catesby, Wintour, Keyes and Percy,
Would not surrender and beg for mercy,
Instead, they would stand their ground,
Only to be shot from all around,
Those that survived were condemned to death,
Dragged through the streets at their last breath,
Only for Fawkes not to be so slaughtered,
Hanged on the gallows and dead before drawn and quartered,
For the others this would be their end,
A gruesome sight with a message to send,
The People did celebrate King James’ survival,
To Light bonfires and create this revival,
That we commemorate on the Fifth of November,
With fireworks and a Guy burnt to remember,
But for what reason do we now celebrate,
The survival of the Monarchy to which we relate,
Some people would have Guy Fawkes back from the dead,
For innocent blood there would be to shed,
We should celebrate life for that is the thing,
Bonfires of Deliverance and “God save the King”.
James Findon © 2025.
Rievaulx Abbey.
I sometimes like to write poetry about places I have visited and have given me inspiration. One of those places is the ruins of Rievaulx Abbey located in North Yorkshire, England. Founded in 1132 this Cistercian order became home to 600 men. Following King Henry VIII dissolution of the monasteries in 1538, Rievaulx was destroyed but somehow the remaining ruins became a magnet for artists and writers. I visited here in 2024 and had always wanted to since the late 1970’s having seen a programme on TV about the abbey. Yes it is in ruins but maintains a certain dignity and is a magnet for tourists. The abbey is maintained and preserved by English heritage. If you like visiting old castles, churches, abbeys etc then I thoroughly recommend paying Rievaulx a visit.
Down toward the tranquil valley,
Within the North Yorkshire moors,
The skeletal remains,
Of the abbey with no doors,
All windows removed,
After the dissolution,
Of the monastery therein,
With a heavenly constitution,
A twelfth century timetable,
The Horarium of monastic living,
A Cistercian paradise,
Their silence now missing,
Ravaged by time,
Pillaged from the North,
Now the era for conservation,
For what it was worth,
Flying buttresses high above,
Buried tiles under grass,
Rugged Medieval splendour,
Bitter winds not to pass,
The sun’s rays spill through the walls,
Where once the brothers did pray,
Now a bare stone high altar,
A sadness there to stay,
To drink from the stream,
Their garments rough,
And of the scanty food,
A monastic life tough,
To become a muse,
For those seeking the romance,
Of the former glory,
Their canvas to dance,
Where poets and writers meet,
Once a colonisation,
In the grounds once graced,
By a local population,
Today a visitor’s paradise,
Echoes of the choir’s devotion,
Resounds within these walls,
All chanting with emotion.
James Findon © January 2026.
