The House on the Beach


I want a house of driftwood, built on some deserted beach somewhere,
In pastel shades, distressed, the look that comes of paint in salty air.
With crates and tea chest furniture, and rambling, blistered corridors,
With palette walls and planks for sills, and punk-wood window frames and doors,
And shelves of coral, stairs of rope, a hammock made from fishing nets,
All sorts of salvage on display as curios in cabinets,
And in the cellar, growing still, the stumps of ancient, half-drowned trees
Would lift the house, unevenly, each passing year in small degrees.
Until the world was washed away, but as the centuries rolled by,
They’d hold my raw-boned house aloft; just me, the ocean and the sky.

13 responses to “The House on the Beach

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