Far from the high home
into the low shallow sea's coast,
light sand impressions pace the shore,
treading memories of old.

New loves and heart songs
ebb just as the curl crest sprays white foam.

Small hands mold sand into kingdoms,
towering from dawn till dusk,
but falls as all great republics do
with changing tides.

Toes dig deep into wet grain
and new waves bury them deeper.
Eyes fall to the west as the sun
sets the siring sea on fire.

It seems suddenly forgetfulness seeps in.
Where is the high home again?