A Little Venus

I remember her sitting, Canute like
at the sea edge, a toe tipping the near calm,
pointing with a wild elegance, as any true follower
of Dionysian dance might.

My mind set flight to old and distant oceans
where those ever youthful Goddesses, Aphrodite,
Dionea, visions of living art
broke the heart of even the wisest fool.

Well to be the tool of such might be life itself.

But so much for sentiment,
a seventh wave surge caught us unaware.
Well wetted my little Venus,
bare of modesty, discarded her printed cloth
and ran to the distance
until her laughter was lost
in the rising chatter of beach pebbles.