I lie here in the drowning sun,
Thumbing the dirty book of art.
(Bathers burnt as marshmallows run)
I lie here, comfortably apart
And camping by a fire, like hell.

Who quivers the with lily skin
In gilded waters, to the waist?
It is a lady fallen in,
A lady shy and rare and chaste.
Nor is she looking very well.

Now who is in a shuddering skin
In waters of the whirling night?
It is a female fallen in.
(And maybe bathers sweat and fight.
More likely they have kissed farewell)

I lie here, and the waters roar,
And embers glisten on her belly,
And she wallows for the shore.
O Botticelli, Botticelli,
She has fallen from the shell.

Last Modified 1 July 2007
© David Lyttle 1959, 2007