Poem – A WEEK IN MAINE (By John Grey)

5/5 - (1 vote)


The morning of my retreat is dark

with clouds loaded and low.

Noisy gulls see me off.

So do the first raindrops.

I’m heading home

but I don’t feel as if I’m going anywhere,

just away from some place.

I’m driving on tiptoe,

tell myself,

no looking back,

let that woman go about blonde

and blue-eyed,

undisturbed, unflustered,

on streets,

down sidewalks,

even seated on that wall along the docks.

Eyes on the road ahead,

memory tussling with regret,

this is how I lose a fishing village,

its people,

the boats in the harbor,

grayed fishermen gliding in and out,

a week of my life,

that began as a promise

to do good work

and ended on a what-might-have been.

Wipers swish.

Puddles splatter.

Now, I’m like the reverse of a rain-dance.

The sun won’t come out ‘til I’m gone.


Author Bio: John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.