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



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