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
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