When the tide of the Thames is at a low,
Down to its beaches, the sand artists go.
They are working against Old Father Time:
For only a short while, their talents will shine.
They have with them their tools and a pail;
To impress passing crowds, they’ll never fail.
When they are working on their designs,
They pray that the weather will stay fine.
Their labours often attract quite a crowd;
Of their efforts, the artists feel proud.
Upon the beaches, their towels are laid:
For their efforts, they hope to get paid.
Designs can be simple or be quite complex,
But, by the rising tide, they’ll all be wrecked.
Upon their work, passing people peer down:
They may see a mermaid, a dragon, or clown.
The delicate sculptures, which they have created,
Will be overcome by the water and be saturated.
The fruits of their labours will be washed away,
But you know they’ll return the very next day.
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Comments about this poem (Sand Artists by Angela Wybrow )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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