Last Resort

Heavy raindrops fall on shivering pools on the tarmac road,

ripple as ringmail links through the wetblack surcoat.

Wet clothes from my illjudged walk chafe my skin, rub it raw

as neoprened surfers hold their boards in front of them,

wait in dying troughs for the mythic big one.

The town is boarded up for winter, bar a pub

or two, the bay a dark pint glass frothing to a creamy head.

Estate agents’ signs add spot colour to grey streets.

Churchyard tombstones moss a dying sect, its memorials

with blurred inscriptions of  khaki dead in France,

more recent cuts of those wore black a while, and

would have married them.

A drop runs down my spine, exotic, cold,

my shoes continue, disciplined, to move

to a fire, strip change of clothes, an ease.