Stranded

Watching the horizon for days, and in the no-tides (currents have deserted this odd sea) there drifts something which unsettles. He knows every shadow, every line of the day, every hour of the night, and even sleep doesn't quite provide a respite from these endless angles and prisms and geometries of the island.
The water is lukewarm and the land is shallow. There is nothing to see. The sky is blue and neither warm nor cool.
It is the same every day.
He remembers old Sundays back in the suburbs of London, of lying on a single bed through narrow afternoons, tasting the rain and railway tracks and the damp leaves on the roadside verge bushes. Discomforting sleep would push itself into the gallows of the evening. Twisting and waiting for sleep, and something lost that he couldn't quite name.
Cups of tea and dog-walks, Swakeleys Park and Warren Road, Windrush Avenue, Heythrop Drive. All the arcana of suburbia.
The boat lies in ribbons in the water. The no-tide is taking it away.
The sea is still and there is no change, and there is something missing here.