Grayland

Along a short stretch of 105
that slows to 35
is a small town aptly named
whose few houses retreat
behind walls of leafy green
where somnambulant silver
suffuses through silent mist
suspended above crimson stained bogs
moss draped twisted thickets
open onto golden festoons of
scotch broom scattered among
brown grass crowned dunes
gradually give way to
flotsam strewn beach reaching
for crushing embrace of
white crested waves but
underneath all is gray.