House of all seasons.
All seasons, turned willy-nilly.
Salt-mist crystalized one month: azure lenses the next.
The entire curved ocean a stage to gaze upon.
Storms were best, with their hiss and slap of surf.
Sharp cracking strafe of current-honed pebbles.
Bay window-watching, mug in hand.
All topsy-turvy on the Buckled floor
In this building slowly turning to driftwood.
Atop a green- shod
Basement groaning with the sea.
Copyright Tom Tide2017