Billingsgate

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.

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