Poem: The Young’n
By H.St.V.Beechey I babysit in the soft warm sand. She runs about on sturdy legs. Perhaps she is sitting me—I do not run much any more. She calls to me. “Great-grand-papa!” Each consonant crisp as a race-caller. “Great-grand-papa. Come quick! See? What is it?” Creaking, I answer her urgency, to where she squats Her attention…