Blame it all on "Treasure Island". I saw the movie and my great aunt Lula King sent me the book. That was in the early 1950's and I still have the book, and a passion for almost anything by Robert Louis Stevenson.
The poem, as you can guess, is about me. I was there, this was/is me. I was the boy on the beach dreaming of far off lands. Often, I wish I had never left. But don't a lot of us wind up this way? I walked the beaches of Pensacola, Florida for years. How I wish I could go back. Not just to the beaches, but to the boy.
However, I have changed, and as much as I love and miss the white sand beaches of Pensacola, I love my hillside retreat in the center of Texas now. The birds sing, the wind whispers through the trees, and I have a great view of a valley. Not the Gulf of Mexico, perhaps, but it stretches to the horizon as if it were a sea of green.
Life changes, you know. Since I wrote the sentence above, I have gone broke and the property with the lovely view was foreclosed on. Now I live on social security. Life's funny, isn't it?