The markings on the beach

I walk along the beach
and mark upon the sand.
I wonder if the wind
will sweep it to the sea —
the indent of my hand —
for no one else to find.

I fear this thought the most —
I see more, looking back,
from many bygone days.
But I therefore propose
that most stay not intact
but are, too, swept away.

Is there really any point
in drawing on the sand
if the beach is not to last?
For we cannot avoid
the washing of the land
and of our now and past.

A hundred years from now,
a boy visits the beach
and sees the marking on the sand.
He naïvely wonders how
these marks evade the sea,
and wants to try his hand.

That is, to me, enough
to want to mark the sand
before the angels call;
within my mortal cuff
I inscribe with my hand
to give to one or all.