Yellow Sea in the Afternoon

Cold and warm, like spring and winter together. Red sunrise sky as I walk to work. Yellow sea in the afternoon, thinking it looks like an autumn from the late 1990s.
Something I couldn't place walking home.
In a notebook I scrawl the following;

yellowing sky, white days scuttle-leaves, gusty winds, lying on my back on slightly damp grass under a tree and watching the branches sway, the leaves sway, something wakes on the edges of all towns, the days belong to the distance and aren't here any more, when you're young your own room is important, a base of operations, and not just where you sleep and wake, shut-door and the landing a remote place, sat on the bed and watching Sunday afternoons drift to evening, the twilight darken(s), memories of rain drip, wet stone, lizard brick skin, you know the puddles in the garden intimately

There is a candle burning in my room. Straight flame, no movement.
Keep thinking of a poplar tree on a horizon, about the dead street lamps of the last few nights, the one outside the bedsit, the one in the grounds of a residential care home down Cromwell Road.
Think about the sea, dusty days and no-one round.
Lost beach.
Lost days.