QUAY WINSTON CHURCHILL

A fish hovers near the surface
of the river
and then turns and waves its tail
while I try to focus on the depths.
But the Marne is dark and green.

Late each night,
I warn my brother
to look out for knifes
and volatile lovers.
But the Marne is dark and green.

And like a ghost
on a departing train,
you wave and walk away
while I try to say goodbye.
But the Marne is dark and green.