I shake out the quilt, flip flops anchor corners,
and I'm beached for remainder of day;
cry of seagulls and sun upon my eyelids
an aphrodisiac I'm far too weak to fight.
May drag myself to water's edge mid-afternoon,
dip my toes, but full immersion's usually reserved for August.
Frolicking, chilly surf fazes not my children,
their chatter weaving in and out of my reverie
as they fill in, fill up pail after pail with water
for castle moat until waves rhreaten their creation;
even I, sun-drenched drunk, sigh deeply, heave myself up,
move our sandy outpost out of harms way,
glad lifeguards scan horizon and shoreline
for far more serious danger,
watch as seagull and shell garnishes are devoured
by ocean's surge and my children laugh it off,
run past my oasis, shroud me with sand.
I suppose my penance for being lazy.
by Margaret Bednar, July 31, 2018
This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"