Renoir's people
seem to stand
on a forest floor
of blossoms.
The girl on the swing
could be fifteen, her dress
of new flowers.
She leans coyly
or thoughtfully away
from the two men
with straw hats.
They are artists
on a Sunday afternoon
warm in loose clothing,
some kind of wonder
for the child who
makes the fourth figure.
She is clasping her empty hands
in front of her, her head up.
her eyes the only ones
looking outward.
George Bowering
