There are differences always;
The language is intimate and stands,
A symptom of things gone before,
Retreating through its limitations.
The town of a second birth,
Its enclosed silences,
Swollen with growth and alteration,
An expansion provoked by the end of land.
One artificial limb stretches mutely
Above the tidal leanings,
Indicating the lines of a boundary,
Where a culture concludes its acceptance
With this familiar shore, its ancestral
Indentations, its character of stone,
Where we agree to speak of differences,
To look back, or else walk on.