A LITTLE LOST SHOVEL LAY THERE

by Walle Sayer


A LITTLE LOST SHOVEL LAY THERE

As though waiting

beneath the murky clouded sky

the empty beach as though waiting

for some sort of endowment with meaning

for a Dad maybe,

who forgets the passage of hours

that he otherwise remembers,

while building something

like the prognosis

of a castle in the sand,

delicately over-adorning

its towers,

its crenels,

and then to step back, to wait

along with the kids,

until the water rises

in its show,

a wave jutting forth,

taking everything down and away with it,

the wasted afternoon,

the hours gained

that simply

simply that.