Being Away Poem by Bob Bowers

I look out the windows of this
Victorian victory of a house,
A battle won over builder,
Plumber, seabed soil, saltwater well.

To the east, the Salt Pond ebbs,
Flows, slides down bathtub sides
Gurgling out a drain too far below to see,
Where at low tide succulent mussels

Settled in their beds, out of reach of gulls
Are free for the picking,
Butter dripping off my lips
Even now at the thought of their sweet taste.

This is a foreign land, this coast of Maine.
We are “from away” we are told.
As is anyone not born and raised
Amidst this forested vastness, upon these rocky shores.

It is said as a welcome, our being “from away.”
A call to come in, sit by the fire in winter,
Tell tales of the world out there, listen to local lore,
Share the hearth’s warmth, as friends always do.

Maureen stirs her steaming pots,
Looks up, smiles.
She has overcome the taint of being
From away herself, once.

Steve brushes by, touches her shoulder
Ever so slightly,
Moves on, completes his orbit around her,
Wedded by their own gravity as the tides to the moon.

We will leave today, go away.
Winter will sneak slyly ‘round the corner of fall.
But here, on this jut of land, this almost-island,
It will always be warm.



Blue Hills, Maine
July 13,2003