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.