Bertolt Brecht in Exile by David Eyre

I know it's an affront
to walk this same promenade
every day past pretty boats
tethered in a foreign harbour

a haven where they bob
in broken rhythm empty
and colourful despite the grey
winter surrounding the Med.

Last night we gathered again
and I sang songs satiric
and argued and fought
over pink wine and eau de vie

that didn't dull
the finality of failure
streetfights lost
and the impotence

of my never-ending words.
But what can you do
when a people burn
in thrall to hate

despite your every waking effort
but leave and take coffee
at the Hotel de la Tour
half-wishing half-dreading

that the well-dressed burgher
at the table behind
might start
whistling Mackie Messer.

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