The Beach House

I’m building castles in the sand on the shores of a grey, grey sea. The clouds have gathered overhead and the shells are wave-washed clean. Footprints wander down the shore of the vast and vacant sea, the waves are buffing them away and turning the sand sateen. Beyond the berm and the waving grass inked upon the setting sun, someone sits in a house of glass as sand through fingers runs. I’m watching seabirds dodge the stars when the waves reflect the moon and pulling seaweeds from the rocks they drearily festoon. And the sand’s run out of the fingers now, and the drink’s run out of the cup; the house of glass is quiet now, all the shutters drawn up.