Tuesday Rain

Tuesday Rain.

The café facing the busy street has big windows
and I see umbrellas walking by, some of them
stop, fold wings, shake water off backs and enter.

I remember my childhood in black and grey when
umbrellas were stygian; a lady umbrella was a bit
smaller, had frilly silk borders, but was sable too.

Now they are of all colours but black, cheap and
cheerful a sharp breeze and they turn inside out
and that’s ok; it’s the cheery bit I like.

During world war two, the German air force
dropped a few grey bombs down into our town,
no big deal, pale flames warmed winter nights.

In colours everything tend to look good, poverty
too; the hungry wear colourful robes and falling
rockets look like fireworks a festive night.