Moshe was our sandy-haired head-teacher.
I thought he was wonderful.
Freckled with a wry smile
A friendly punch
to the shoulder of us boys who passed too close.
I remember the day of the storm
when school flooded
and the water was more than a meter deep.
I am talking, muddy soup, swirling with wood and dirt and bracken.
in the playground, the next day
This was no photo-opportunity moment.
This was him doing,
I later learned of the embezzlement
thirty years later
I still cannot work-out what happened.
And reconciling one image with another,
It is the man
blue crocheted Kippa, balanced precariously on his freckled head
that remains with me.