Sand Poem by Mary Champion

Golden sand en-masse,
spread out for miles -
ripples, dunes and valleys
carved into graceful shapes by the wind.
Sensational sand-art sculpted by human hand -
no hard edges or sharp corners.

But there is rougher side to sand -
paper for one,
cruelly abrasive sand blasting,
burning hot sand on midsummer beaches
searing the soles of unshod feet.

The Sandman calls and scours sleepy eyes'
forcing them to close.

Sandstorms suck up the Sahara
and deposit it on our cars.

Sand - almost synonymous with desert -
encourages aridity.
It doesn't hold water,
but if you bag it,
it holds it back.

Sandpits full of flies,
sweet-papers,
and sticky toddlers.

Sand-castles crumbling
on their friable foundations.

The sands of time -
running out whenever we boil an egg.

It is a foolish man, who builds his house on the sand.