Grey bridge,
through the rain.
Green hills,
red church steeple,
and structures
dotting through the trees,
like secret memories,
hinted at
in whispers.
Mist off the bay,
and cold air
replaces the bloated heat
of scant hours ago.
Further East
than we imagined.
Wander rocks
and spill us out
over these kelp covered shores.
We carry memories
of our own.
Perhaps we have come here
to bury them
in the Atlantic.
We’ll return west,
solitary vessels.
Emptier than we came,
but with our memories
recast
in solid rock.
DJR – 07.28.23
