The tide was out at midnight,
ropes rattling on the mast,
in the municipal car park
he fell asleep at last,
waking with the tide back in
and jumping in a squall,
as he searched in vain for coffee
along the old sea wall.
He’d gone there out of season,
unlike summers past,
no suitcase, just some luggage
and a crumpled photograph.
The sea was rough by eight o’clock,
no one saw him fall,
as they opened up for coffee
along the old sea wall.
[first posted 25 Nov. 2014]
Another Way of Saying 
I really enjoy this poem. I like the mystery in it. It leaves you sort of hanging, on whether he slipped or committed suicide.
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Many thanks! He was depressed but it was wet and slippery … I think we’ll have to wait for the inquest.
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