(Poem) The Year of the Pig

We walked to the crest of the hill;
no lantern between us,
but still, laid out below like a
rumpled, rutted miscellany of
cloth, we could see for miles
and miles.
Beneath the luminous, ripe moon
we gathered, expectant;
for soon, the bursts of festival 
firelight would explode in the lustrous
black: a lavish sprinkling of sparkles
and glitter.
Huddled together on damp ground,
a billowing cacophony of
mottled sound and smells rose
to meet us: pig’s crackling and
spiced ale and jubilant cheer
and dogs barking.