Not being a poet I can’t call this a poem. It’s really more
A writer’s list…
Rain slicks the blue van to a shine
Water lies in pools on the market square
The market stalls have left their spoor -
Vague shadow of a bad day’s takings
Raindrops weigh down cyclamen
On the last flower stall.
A woman crouches like a dealer
In her hoodie: pillar box red.
Another woman, her bleached hair
Hanging like snakes, hauls
Her boy from school,
Both unwilling.
I have to say there’s something rakish
About a raised blue umbrella.
(PS This hosta is called a Blue Umbrella)
