January, early morning

A platform, 7am.
Umbrellas flap like batwings,
shaken down towards the floor
in sodden, sinewy shame.

The tide is glugging in,
unseen and thick,
burbling muddy promises.

A dog barks, and our necks crane
to see if it's loose on the tracks.
The noise travels on the wind,
and we hear
its source; the darkened beach.

A peninsular blinks and twinkles,
a whole other county getting ready for the day.
Enormous ships slice towards
the mouth of the North Sea, more
lights,
and lowly fog horn sounds.

Cargo, bright yellow drums; we see them from
the shore,
the only ones escaping.
We are city-bound,
and I stand awaiting the sleek,
unwanted train,
wishing I was on any ship,

heading out to sea.