Hands blood-blistered by a Teacher’s cane, pride
wounded,
Big Dermot hunted a
victim.
To savage. Somebody small and quiet.
Anybody!

Violence, like blame, trickles downhill in
rivulets of venom, and a Teacher’s
assault
injures the innocent, wounds the
weakest,
eventually. But not today maybe.
For today was Dermot’s
nemesis.

Today the quiet one hit back.
Hard.
As his Dad had taught, with gentle
red gloved hands,
on his knees.
‘Come on Son. Keep your guard up.
Try and hit me. Gimme the old
one-two.’

One-two. Dermot.
One-two-three.
Don’t hit me.
Dermot!