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Krystalnacht

Broken glass crunches under moss
And the first flakes of snow.
Railway sleepers, neatly stacked,
Moulder amongst wildly tangled brambles.

Concrete posts stagger into view
Like broken teeth
Pock marked with old iron,
Incongruous piercings,
Necklaces,
Garlands of frost burned hops,
Paper thin skeletons
Of rusted barbed wire.

In the sucking mud of the ditch
We find a child’s shoe
Old, all leather,
Once, it was red.

This is the price of meek acceptance
This, the prize of ill-thought enthusiasm
Ruin, fought for,
The winnings of intolerance.
The shadows of November the 9th are long
As the night falls, again.