Unmarked

I’ve stuffed myself with porridge

Accosting eight O’clock again,

Inch by inch, cold colours conglomerate

Closeting the rain. Their urban fringe

Seems sick, ashamed –

There’s nothing left to give.

It’s stain

Sitting, pensive, like my coast of Britain

With the bridleways unnamed -

Not even the man tracing oily tide

Unto the cliffs

Can paraphrase this.

His final wave.