They built a house with pebbles shaped like healed
wounds; to stem the tide impinging on their
flower beds, they fashioned makeshift drains, sealed
with beeswax. Relatives demurred. Anywhere
else seemed preferable to this eyesore, hewn
from Neptune's ankle-bracelet. Beach to beach
their hearthlight carried visible – the moon
abridged the narrow bay and seagulls preached
for bread – well-meaning friends made boring visits,
chewed seafood and would have licked the windows
to discover dirt; they just got titbits
for gardening, advice on trimming hedgerows.
They figured the men might prefer something thatched.
The moon circled knowingly, semi-detached.