two by two
bobbing crooked through
salt soaked streets.
We take cover
in The Queen
and find underneath
her skirt, terrain
made unfamiliar
from Berlin blitz.
And here William
shows us his father
and his father.
Hands of men whose faces
were black by day,
red by night.
Men who sat behind mahogany
trying to drowned
their siren sea songs.
These are men of coal and iron.
Men who lead our pencils.
Who wet our ink.
And in the morning
we wake and wipe
the blur from our eyes.
See the slow
black, crow black, fish
boat bobbing sea.
Though we are baptized, we do not cry.
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