Barton Clay

I misjudged.
The tide was higher than I hoped
and the sharp black teeth 
of the long-dead sharks
were underneath the waters
of an ocean somewhat colder
than the one in which 
they used to swim.

But this was a beach
and on a beach there's
never nothing you can do.

So we found the thick 
black clay amenable
to our imagination
and in the synergy 
of hand and inner eye
an Easter Island bestiary began.

Father and son became 
playmates and architects, 
advisors, competitors.

Four hours later 
we left the beach.
Sand and clay still clung;
cloying to our clothes and hands,

and we, in turn, left something
of our playful spirits clinging there,
captured in clay effigies
of comic elegance
and style.

A fair exchange that,
even now, 
can make me smile.