Processions

John Whitney
A small boy, bucket in hand.
Building castles in the sand
Thinking of his life that lies ahead.
An engine driver, sailor, why not a king
Of the sand castle as the gypsy woman said
Taking a ride on a dinkie rail
A green engine that's old
Could be a royal procession through
Big city streets
Waving to the crowds from a sand carpet of gold
Shaking hands of the V.I.R's one meets
Sailing a toyboat in a rock pool
Thinking that it could be
The Queen Mary, passing the Cape Horn tip.
Something majestic, sailing world wide seas.
Attention please, I'm the captain of the ship
After all these thoughts and more
The boy returned to find
That the sandcastles were washed into the sea.
Head in hands, eyes full of tears.
And a mixed up mind.
The gypsy woman can't foresee the years.