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Rolled up pants, warm sun-kissed skin,
freckled eager faces,
shrill laughing voices, sparkling eyes
searching for dreamed of places.

Salt-spray flies free as breakers crash
on beach unspoiled and wide;
seagulls' feet mark delicate trails
later wiped out by the tide.

Tortured driftwood, polished smooth
by ocean's abrasive swirl;
hinged open shells, like angel wings
blushed pink and bronze and pearl.

Bare racing feet, eager brown hands,
wandering, wondering eyes
choosing ferny seaweed, king crab's shell,
valuing each as a prize.

A sandcastle shaped by four skilful hands
grows turrets and tunnels and walls;
they stud it with stones and domed crinkled shells
and spiky sea-urchin balls.

The sun, sinking low, streaks azure with red,
tinting each feathery cloud;
treasure-laden youngsters, heading back home,
outpace night's darkening shroud.

They spread the day's treasures, admire them again,
eat supper and long for their beds;
they drift into dreams with the song of the sea
going round and round in their heads.

Content, sun-drenched and filled with elation
in that place of freedom from rules,
each child knows it now and will dream it forever:
such days are as precious as jewels.

Learn more about this author, Victoria Moss.
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