The Britains

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.