In August That Year

It was mad in August that year.

There were no coloured pencils
to serve as scissors
or curlers for silvery hair.

No sleds to glide over
Thick layers of snow,
To lessons in German
with lice-ridden Turks,

It was bad in August that year,
with visions of stages
and well delivered lines
and tears and departures
which fractured some minds.
There were cynics and critics
and dark silent fear.