When the children tripped
Grazed their knees and
Screamed.
I heard them, felt the sound break
The waves pounded, washed
Through their bodies.
As the waves receded their voices broke
On the high notes
I knew the Spring tide had touched
The rocks at their roughest point.
But soon those rocks
Would become pebbles
Pebbles, sand
Sand, concrete
Concrete to sea walls
Where tides would some day
Touch
But not break.
Not this time
I hear the children holiday
At the beach this year.

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