She sat,

cross-legged, crossed arms tight shut,

cross face with eyebrows heavily beating

its own pulse and declared, “I wish

your generation would stop going

on about the crimes of the war,

it will never happen again!”. Smug,

self satisfaction, creased her face

and she allowed herself the smidge

of a smile, teeth like stance, serpent begging question

and awaiting the rebuff of standard attack.

Breathing heavily as I make my way

past men in masks, not frightened,

terrified for the future, as the prospect of

reminding that the battle against insane thought

is never truly won and the deep concern

in my stomach, sick to the point of vomit,

as I see the next generation

raise their arms in Nazi salute

on the steps of St. George.

Ian D. Hall 2016