Le Dejeuner sur L’Herbe - Richard Fleming

A July day in southern France.
The picnic was a simple one:
cheese, ham and crusty fresh-baked bread,
a little wine to wash it down.

Post-lunch, we fell into a trance.
Our holiday had just begun.
We dozed, our paperbacks unread
I sought the sun, you slept facedown.

Waking, I chanced an upward glance.
Above us swallows wheeled and spun
as though they were unwinding thread
from an incredible blue gown.

Richard Fleming