So I stay on the platform another hour
watching the day-trippers under their backpacks in the rain.
The quarry rises up on the other side of the line,
dirty and vast, unspeakable
bruise.  Smell of candyfloss and pies,
painted capitals peeling: CAFE.
They frisk themselves for loose change
and call their children. The sea

is hidden by a ten foot wall. The memory of it!
Its sound, like passion or impatience.
A milky sky, and flags
torn apart on masts. When the storm hits
the beach is once again with itself.  Single
yellow-horned poppy.