The Stones Think Nothing of It

The children call in the waves.
The adults talk on the shore.
That’s the usual pattern.

Sometimes, the children come out
Of the waves and ask for snacks.
Sometimes, an adult dives in.

The planet’s gripped by heat waves,
Northern hemisphere, at least.
One has reached this stony beach

More often pelted by rain,
Visited by odd elderly
Persons out walking their dogs

In the downpour, if not snow.
Not now. The stones are baking
To where they can scorch bare feet,

And it’s delightful, really.
The children call in the waves.
So long as the woods don’t burn.