Poem: Tide and Time Waits for No Child

From somewhere in my childhood I recall
kneeling with shovel on a sandy shore
scooping wet sand into a plastic pail
sculpting high-rise castles and a dragon’s lair.

More wet sand to form a door, pack a crack
populate with popsicle sticks and bottle tops
decorate towers with shell and stone
the bestest cityscape to a child’s mind.

 Time tilts the child’s beach and frees the constant tide
and, as waters rise and tears draw near
“But it’s my city, I built it” cries the child.
A gentle plash is only reply.

Time and tide is beyond child’s world

 but best, and bestest can rise once more.

 BobT

House of All Sorts

Wind in our Sails

Wind in our Sails