A child crouches, bucket and spade in hand,
paying no attention to the devastation
that he is wreaking
upon the smooth expanse of sand.

He does not hear the waves that patter up the beach
at his heels, creeping
closer to an unsuspecting back.

The man who erupts from the child
proceeds with the same blithe abandon
but uses the world as his plaything.
The towers he builds now 
belch acrid smoke skywards
to taint the rock pools of youth.

He is battered and burnt by the weather,
choked by smog,
assaulted by warnings
blared out by weather girls
but suffers all these insults in silence
with tattered innocence.

His only wish is for a little peace
to build his castles in the sand.