Dawn broke to a cushioned hush as if those last held breaths were cotton wool crushed – and preserved, and saved, and held, like one too many goals.

Somewhere, between the walking of those lasts silent steps and the breaking of dawn, the bunting had been taken down, without a sound.

Windows, no longer draped in a patron saint’s cross, looked forlornly at the grey morning, no brilliant sunshine spoiled the dampened spirits of the heavy hearts sleeping behind them.

Hands clasped and caressed favourite mugs of tea; no one spoke, not a word broke the air.

No one would care to recall in years to come where they were this morning.

But in the kitchens of the closed minds some did care to reach into the drawer of anger and pull out the tools of bitterness, division, and hate.

For them, not the celebration of achievement, of being one step closer to glory.

Blind bigotry refutes the realisation that the finest of margins separated the sagacious from the aspiring young men of promise.

Is it too hard to praise a better victor?

Must we always scorn, scold and sneer rather than cherish and cheer?

Tell me – wherein lies the comfort of blaming “them”?