At first glance, a picnic seems more likely,
or village fete, with its clumsy
signs of a British al fresco:
the bare and slightly burnished arms, lightly
clasping an instant camera; your mumsy
summer necklace and pleased-to-be-out grin.

In contradiction to this limbering
gorgeousness bringing the foreground to ease,
the ceremony behind you pulls the eye
brusquely off-course, and starches the breeze
which would ruffle your hair from its shielding
canopy to bare your cheekbone.

Sitting on those stiff chairs in your ball-blue
dress, you remind me that there is no lone
photograph. Someone artificed
your intimacy. They must have noticed
your central, sun-shy face and known,
known that here was summer itself.