Cobwebs paint her house homely,
the little bungalo by the beach,
walls thin enough to let the rushing sounds of the tide fill her room,
a permanent ocean backdrop,
sand smoothing her floor like welcome mats,
shells dressed upon her mantle like trophies,
all the be released back into the sea,
studied for their beauty, brought to the reflective window light,
before thrown back into the ocean,
consumed by the salty fire,
dug back deep into the sand for another child to find,
and call their own,
before bestowing freedom upon the once living mantle piece.

Sunlight trickles like an early morning wake up call,
and she stokes the fire pit,
spitting embers like insults,
brewing smoke to fill her home once more,
as fire burns her heart black and dreams paint her eyes a ghostly purple.
She is witch blood,
she thinks as she dances on the beach,
smiling in a way that had to be learnt,
singing nonsense words that she is not ashamed to sell,
feet soaked by the water that threatens her tiny shack,
sand dipped between her toes,
washing off so quickly like her forgotten worries.

Just her,
the house,
and the beach.