At Water's Edge

The tailings of the year,

Shift slyly on the sea,

Recede and wash back in again,

With bland regularity.

I, stand amongst the spume,

A Crusoe of a man,

I cannot fathom at the pulse,

Nor apprehend the span.

The waters dawdle at my feet,

A cold abundance dulls,

Upon the skies faint boundary,

A crowd of coloured popping light -

The dead year's last assembly.