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,

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.