Today I stood upon the shore
Where Grandad walked in days of yore;
Along its sandy, glossy sheen
Where once, his imprint would have been.
And thereupon I did behold
�Twas here, when I was two years old;
I dangled from his stalwart hands
In gleeful awe of foaming sands.
So timeless now, this scene appears
It�s altered not these fifty years
Nor hundreds, thousands gone before;
As restless wave greets silent shore.
Still endless rolling surf she brings;
Now to my little son she sings.
I held him in her gentle lee,
The way my Grandad once held me.
As every wavelet�s dying throes
Washed tiny grains between my toes;
Methought perhaps, that in his day,
For every grain, a pebble lay.
Eroded by the tick and tock
Of oscillating tidal clock;
Its pulsing rhythm, all abounding
In softest kiss, or anger pounding.
I pondered what it all may mean;
Our ocean�s mighty time machine.
Where pebbles, hardened, flat or round,
By rolling surf to sand are ground.
From rock to stone to pebbled grain
To sand, and back to rock again . . . . . .
As, in our turn, we surely must
Become as ashes . . . . . . dust to dust.
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