Square Tower Dwindling
Dark pools of shadow, fish hooks on shallow craters.
That pale white beach by the inky black sea.
The full moon cast light on itself that night.
It wore the dusk clouds like a thick scarf
and watched, cold eyed, the master
of the house on his evening stroll.
In the estate which overshadowed that extinguished beach
(or would overshadow, if the sun was shining)
a solemn celebration was taking place.
To mark the end of another year
and the continued survival
of those in attendance.
Inside the house a lady sang old songs in French
and under those lights, for just a moment
the audience understood the words
she sang. She kept going and
going until those words
were swept away.
A young girl asked her mother about the flowers
that she had heard about on their journey there.
The stories were green, red, orange, brown
but the plants here were blue and grey.
Her mother gestured to the ballroom,
at all the white and gold.
A waiter overheard this conversation and frowned.
He had seen the garden staff's faces
when they were told the news
that cuts were being made.
“You know, this place
will be empty soon.”
The master of the house didn't mind any of that.
He sat near the window and craned his neck
and stared all night at the beach outside.
"That pale white. Sand? Salt? Sugar?"
The tide started to come in.
Brendan Kearon is a student of English Literature and Creative Writing at Cardiff University. He has never published a piece of writing before.
The Ekphrastic Review
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