Cursing Hitler

House lights and street lights flickered and dimmed

as the din of air raid sirens flooded stone corridors,

like ice cold blood rushing down from the hills.

Soon every light went black, and every sound went silent.

Every breath was held, and every hand was clenched.

Even the iron hands of the old town clock seemed too afraid to move.

Time stopped, and the people of London stood motionless.

But on this night, instead of the hum of airplane engines approaching,

the coarse scratch of a wood match against a concrete wall broke the silence;

and the flickering face of a withered old man cast its shadow across the room.

Time moved for him alone as he inhaled from his pipe, and dropped the match.

Pushing through the stillness he opened a door, and stepped into the street.

Glaring into the black sky, he puffed his tobacco.

“I’m sick of your bloody fucking war!” he cursed defiantly,

and dared the sky to answer him.

Tired and proud, he stood alone,

and he waited, unwavering,

for Hitler to respond.

RLJ - 2011