The coastal plain meets the sandy shore,
like a Monet painting...lines of demarcation,
elusive and confused.

Sea spray burst through the rocks,
metered by the grainy boulders that line these shores,
and this town.
It is here that I was born,
and now I have returned to take my leave...
from all of this,
from all whom I have loved,
from all that I have loved.

Straw snaps under my feet as I make way
to the other side of the Grove...
there I will sit and remember who it is I claim to be...
and who is it that I am.

The elderly lady from across the fork wrestles with her linens...
one will subdue the other so it seems.
She smiles and waves, as the bedsheets appear to get the best of her.

I wisk on by wondering aloud "could she possibly recognise me,
or is every stranger a friend?"

The Wisteria trees are in bloom now,
as are the wildflowers that align every street,
children play with everyday items as toys,
while dogs chase them wondering why.

This was my home...yet where is there one that knows my face?
True, I left long ago,
to find the promise of salvation,
a salvation vanquished by my dreams...
without a trace.

If I have a home...it is here.
Still I am a stranger in a strange land...
come home to rest and be reborn -
to relive a thousand memories...
soon I will wake from this dream,
only to wonder again,
from whence it all came...
and to where it has gone.

by Gregory Sexton
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