There’s a special kind of terror

When you’re lying on the beach

And you’re suddenly aware that your child is out of reach

And you can’t see hide nor hair of him

He has gone with out a trace

And you are seeing milk cartons

Printed with his smiling face

Then, you spy him,

And he’s digging, 

Spreading sand with much aplomb.

And you breathe and sigh and tell yourself that nothing could go wrong.

But you also sink down to your knees 

On the sunny soft sand bank,

And flop down to write a poem

As a modern prayer of thanks