Sandy

Sandy

Not golden, not quite brown, but soft and grand,
A thousand tiny stones slipped through your hand.
It clings to toes, a persistent, gritty trace,
Found where the sea kissed the sun-warmed space.

You build a castle, towers proud and tall,
Moats that the brave waves threaten to enthral.
A spade, a bucket, laughter, bright and free –
The kingdom rises, wild and Sov'reign by the sea.

Then suddenly, a shadow, swift and low,
A wagging tail, a wet nose's hello!
Sandy the pup, with fur the colour of shore,
Shakes off the spray, then begs for more.
He buries his bone with fierce, delighted haste,
Where castle walls once stood, now laid to waste.

No crown remains, no turret, sharp and neat –
Just paw-print tracks and sand between your feet.
But oh, the joy! The salt-kissed, breezy air,
The splash, the chase, the wind-tossed, tumbling hair.
For Sandy's not just grains beneath the sun –
It's laughter, friendship, and the day begun.
(British spelling: harbour, favourite, programme, pavilion, keen, mould)
(British terms: pavement, lorry, crisps, holiday, fizzy drink, queue)