Perhaps this shifting sands business is not a one-way street. Perhaps the scattered remains of Ozymandias and Soulac's buried minster are not the end of the story. The following poem by Andrew Young (1885-1971) is about a sandy place in the north of Scotland.
Here lay a fair fat land;
But now its townships, kirks, graveyards
Beneath bald hills of sand
Lie buried deep as Babylonian shards.
But gales may blow again;
And like a sand-glass turned about
The hills in a dry rain
Will flow away and the old land look out;
And where now hedgehog delves
And conies hollow their long caves
Houses will build themselves
And tombstones rewrite names on dead men's graves.
Andrew Young, Collected Poems (1960).
The fate of the townships, kirks, and graveyards was, according to the Forestry Commission of Scotland, sealed by the great storm of 1694. In later years, a forest was planted to arrest the sands. Much of the forest was felled during the First World War to provide framing and duckboards for the trenches. The trees have now grown back. So, who knows what might happen? The thought that one day "tombstones [will] rewrite names on dead men's graves" is an appealing one.