I live in a house built of sea-glass and shells, with rain that falls from the ceiling. Sand is brushed into the corners beneath paper-cloud walls, salt lies on table and tongue, sea-dreams fizz around fidgety toes – and we all drink saltwater and are filled. Piano tongues stick out of the mouths of cloistered clams beneath my rainy-holed rock for a footrest. Giants from the locker leap up and linger in the wake of our precious parade of life by the sea. But the day dims, and tangerine is the taste of the sun as it sinks beneath the surge, and the lips of night close round to hide the sparkle of my sea-glass house. It is goodnight and goodbye, for tomorrow the sun will be new, and sea glass only sparkles for a solitary day.