To the north, three jetties are thrashed
for attempting to slow nature’s will. (An
old man once caught an eight-foot mako in
the trough between the first two.) Another
hundred feet of shoreline taken this year.

At the southern most tip, a ghost house
haunted by the absence of dwellers, stands
alone on a crest of land where the ocean
and bay conspire in a closing arc.

Atop the house, a copper cupola is crusted
in blue tarnish and crowned with a thrashing
marlin weathervane, the western pointer
bent down and to the side.

The wood siding has warped and curled
to expose ribs and wiring. Two balconies
connect with a walkway that sags and spills
seaward, the rail posts jut like crooked
teeth in an ugly smile. Sheets hang as
lids to conceal the soulless insides behind
broken windows that blindly stare at a point
where the neighbor house went under.

Green shafts break the sandy yard to fester
in purple berry flowers and the lone tree is
wedge shaped from the restless wind, but
the backyard has eroded to a small,
precarious cliff.

The house turns colorless in the fading light,
awaiting some final storm in early Spring.
With no witness, the waves will slash at
the foundation and swallow the house in a
shift, slide and sudden disappearance.

04/19/2005

Author's Note: Based on the house at Cape May Point, and how it felt.

Posted on 04/19/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill