Mexico, a poem

Mexico

A fringe of sea oats and yes, some sand-spurs
separated manicured lawns
from white sand. Beyond, the Gulf,
whispered soft onto our shores,

as it did on distant beaches,
in languages we’d yet to learn.
Texas was that way; Mexico
a little to the left. We would

not swim that far today. Tomorrow
we might seek those shores, swimming,
swimming, into oblivion.
It and Mexico were waiting.

Stephen Brooke ©2026