THE HOUSE OF SAND
On a far away archipeligo
stood a house of sand,
would never last as long
Karnak, Chichen Itza
or a Byzantine cathedral.
A unique design of turrets
and spires reaching for the sky,
gargoyles on balustrades
fending off spirits of the night.
Ravenous crocodiles filled a moat
keeping venemous arrows at bay.
Morning sun shimmered through
isinglass windows revealing
children gleefully at play,
giddy cherubic laughter could
be heard as they sauntered to the
shore, searching for anemone and
periwinkle. An aroma of garlic,
lemon and cumin filled the halls,
a mouthwatering hint of the dining
routine.
Secret tunnels led to private
salons, candlelight conversation
as witty and urbane as a
three act Chekhov play.
Revelers waltzed till dawn
on a chestnut ballroom floor.
One snow covered winter's eve
a last log burned to embers,
old lovers locked in a familiar
embrace, waiting for the full
moon tide to wash their house
out to sea.
Milton P. Ehrlich