Sandcastles

I watched them heap the peach coloured sand with care, with love. It was only a small mound. They patted it into shape with long, elegant, starved fingers, leaving ridges down its sides as if it had been turned out of a jelly mould.

He stood first, leaning with great weariness on his staff, the hot wind catching his torn robes. She remained crouched, keening, singing a lullaby, crying. Then, exhausted, she stood as well. Beneath the hot sun they said one last prayer over the grave of their baby and began the long walk back to the feeding station, picking their way with care between the myriad rows of tiny sandcastles.

The hot wind continued to blow, smoothing, wearing, grain by grain by grain…