There your small fingers lie
open on a blue bucket,
your eye fixed on me, and
 
then the incoming sea
glazing the silk soft sand,
your hand taps the top to
 
release high towers, trim
corners of a curtain
wall drying in a salt
 
wind, your blonde hair gently
ruffled by the voice
of the sea, tranquil as  
 
a turning page, free as
the few clouds above this
beautiful chaos, which
 
we follow to a warm
sea wall where we sit and
watch our castle slowly
 
flood and flounder, but in
our blood we know no tide
nor wind nor voice will breach
 
our roots which interlock
like your hand in mine, and
looking at your dear face
 
I am numb with love that
cannot be shaken like
the sand between our toes
 
as we slowly stand, hand
in hand, and smile as we
talk all the long mile home.