Perched on the edge of the land
grown thick with pine
and tidal pools of sand,
there was, reaching skyward, a fine
old hotel, with turn-of-the-century
turrets and stately lines.
On the porch: wicker chairs for ladies
to retire in the hot afternoons
spent by the unrelenting sea.
Who could have known that soon
in a Northeastern squall
this castle would tip past the dunes
and make it’s elegant, and permanent, fall?
The prompt was to write a poem in terza rima; here is my attempt.