The greys almost have color,
a faint hint of sickly yellow in the clouds,
a reminder there is a sun. There is morning.
For now, though, it is an eternal lack,
or at least it feels that way. Babel after the fall,
A feeling of wonder for all that has left you
and all that has come home.
It is one of your oddest traits,
that you find home in faraway places,
where the unfamiliar surrounds you
and the local gods do not know you;
where you have to find your place again,
always adjusting to weather and geography
and the local customs.
And so it is you clamber over the sea wall.
you walk to the end of land, to the end of firmness
and find yourself surrounded by the foggy sea,
You remember past worlds you lived in,
like a character from Kubla Khan,
far more lurid than your plain clothes would indicate,
More you than the you living in this world.
About this poem.
I am quarantined with Covid for a few days, so of course, I have a terrible case of wanderlust.
I really do tend to feel very home in strange places. Often more so than I do at home. That has been true since I was a boy.
It has always been my secret desire to live outrageously. I never have, never will, but back in the depths of my mind, I am Oscar Wilde with a southern accent.
From those things, this poem.
PS- The picture was taken in Kennebunkport, Maine in winter.