Wet sand in your hand

Scooped from the white rippled sea bottom under the waves

And gone before you reach the surface,

just a few grains remain

in the fortuneteller lines of the hand

you stretch out to show me

.

You shout and lift out

slim feet from holes worked in the sand

With thin, heavy legs dragged down by clinging grains

The holes disappear as the wet grains flow back

With gurgling, sucking sounds

a wave levels the surface

 .

You bring and tell a sharp seashell

And another, with green shapes and patterns

And as you run to find more

amongst the palms that line the shore

little crab legs peak carefully out

sense the quiet and scarper across the sand

Gone before you return

.

We write our names as sun sets in flames

Autographs by finger in the sand

And the water and sky grow dark

Long shadows as we walk dripping home

No trace is left of our salty afternoon

But it is there, slowly developed

In the darkroom in my heart

.