We stood out on these sands;
Our parents gone,
And we three old and graying,
I send a photo of where we stood
To them.

It has been fifty years,
But then, when I was seven,
He, fourteen,
And she, sixteen,
We wandered these white sands
While our brunette mother
And tanned pilot father
Watched us proudly from the reeds.

The currents of time,
The waves of exigency,
The erosion and wear
That comes when
A child’s wave comes in

A parent’s wave goes out

And then the child’s wave

 
Goes slowly out after it