© Christopher Raine


Back East


I dream of
the smallest of strawberries
with white petal flowers,
plush blackberry swaths
of green bushes,
spider webs among oak leaves
and acorns,
autumn mornings
and damp leaves,
stones thick with moss
and mushrooms,
blue-spotted salamanders
and the scent of black earth,
the cool mist
of a salt-ocean breeze,
dragonflies as big as your hand,
the delicious smoke
of faded grey shacks
filled with mackerel,
the smile of a fisherman’s face,
the price of a good deal,
the glint of a glass,
and the sweet amber fragrance
of a navy spiced rum.
I dream of a home,
lost along the way
of things,
that used to be