Sculpture In Sand Poem by Martin Ward

Sculpture in Sand
It may not be here tomorrow.
It is a transitory sculpture in sand.

Sometimes the plastic cup is empty
and sometimes it is full of coins or sand.

The Artist sits in his deckchair:
does he guard his creation from destroyer's feet?

What would happen should he turn away,
or suddenly feel the need to take a call of nature?

How long did the great creation take?
Is there some great secret of its making I should know?

If I hold a handful of sands it trickles through my fingers,
yet he can make a perfect mix which holds firm for a time.

People pass with glance or wonder; others with indifference.
Are you more interested in going somewhere or eating an ice cream?

As time passes, the gentle wind slowly swirls in eddies to undermine the structure.
The sculpture, once in definite form, starts to fade and return to sand.

Some careless cur is sure to chase a ball and crash straight though it,
or spiteful child that kicks over sand castles to make babies cry.

Will he rage if youths rampage around his great creation?
Will someone care enough to guard it in his place?

Does the Artist not forsake his masterpiece,
should he find a better pitch or place?

Surely art is not a fleeting form:
sculptures are made of stone.

Atoms taking form
out of sand.

Suddenly
gone.