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To Long Island, NY
South to Boston, MA

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"Down East"; a saying – a random set of words,
But speak them and the heart of every ole-salt stirs,
Lobster pots and peapods and thick-o-blue fogs
A drowned coast, Viking ghosts, and great gray bogs,
The sea thundering on the cliffs, a new moon riding low
The ocean seen through Winslow's eyes, a red sun dying slow,
Friendship sloops and pinkies and the calm at "low-dreen"
Curtain lace and clambakes and the spell of things unseen,
Long months of the arctic smoke, and rhythms of the waves
And life's pulse throbbing with every tide
In the flow of older ways,
Bait barrels and yellow jackets and the buoy's lonely groan
Hackmatacks and lobster smacks and the feeling that you're home,
A tortured game of "83," the mystery of "the dash"
And deep green forest that turned to fleets
And the King's most favored masts,
Sea moss puddin' and goose grass greens, a fiddlehead's delight
And the whale's blow and the star's glow
To fill the long dark night,
The air teems with spruce and salt, great sails filled with breeze
A cannery's whistle up the bay, the autumn's golden leaves,
Dragon torches, the Bangor boat, the people of the dawn
Rum runner's luck and pirate trunks
And lore of things now gone
"Down East"; a saying – a fleeting seaman's phrase,
But not for those who've raced the wind
And looked into her face!

– Terry Moore ©2015