Room with a View

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 … More Room with a View

Never

It may be cold. There may be wind as harsh as a blade. It will soak me to the skin. Yet it will never. Ever. Be repetitive.   © Tom Tide 2017