My son would have been 45 years old today and I was undecided about

My son would have been 45 years old today and I was undecided about

writing anything at all.

In the end, I decided to write this:

Once there was a boy

Who took the beach home

In a bucket

He said he could hear the sea

The ebb and flow of the tide

He slept soundly

With the bucket by his side

Dreaming of castles and pirates

Fighting in a sandstorm

Waking to a ruined bed

Crying for the chafing

The dry sand made

On his soft skin

Promising never to make

That mistake again

He collected up

As much of it as he could

Refilling the bucket

Turning it upside down

At the bottom of the garden

Tapping out every last grain

Building a small mound

By the bolted gate

Leading to the clifftop

As an offering

To the sea gods

He thought would soon come calling

On another land grab

And would be happy

To smuggle the sand away

Perhaps leave a sand crab

He could play with for a while

Until his dad saw it

And that too

Would have to be returned

From whence it came

Dad always said

Every action had a consequence

(Whatever that meant),

And even having fun

Came at a price

We were always expected to pay.