Poem – A WEEK IN MAINE (By John Grey)
A WEEK IN MAINE
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,
no looking back,
let that woman go about blonde
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,
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.
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.