Waves crash, beat time on golden sanded shores,
small footprints pebbled oftener than shells;
forever on these magic shores are beached
the coracles of children, come to play.
Apollo never touches East or West,
but firmly in his watchtower stands guard
over the games of make-believe below—
until across the flashing, sparkling sea
rises the call for supper, bath and bed.
Away the nodding fleet, all knowing well
They’ll pull their boats ashore here in the morn.