NOT REALLY A STRANGER

I don't know what the right term is
For this kind of tide
It is high but not stormy
Grey flecked with white
Slightly misty, bad tempered
I get the feeling it would like
To burst through the walls
And drown me quietly.

I stare through the windows
Of a seafront bistro
Designed to show the bay
At its best to visitors
But the waves are not playing
It is only just spring
And winter doesn't want
To go away

And I'm not really a stranger
Although I don't live here now
I left something behind
I keep returning to look for
Don't ask me what it is
I don't know
It's somewhere out there
Breaking angrily on the shore.