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.
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