Umbrella lake by Sal Harris

Trickling sunlight smiles
on wet bricks.
Buildings sit like elephants,
pensive on the edges of
a colossal lake of umbrellas bashing,
bumping to shelter the quick suits,
and strung together with rain for thread.
From above they’re a fumbling ocean,
black plastic stretching and wire teeth.
Below, they shield wicked wild skin
in a hundred buttoned-up shirts.
Thick wind swims
between the sharp morning eyes,
led by routine’s electric pull,
with everyone stealing a curious glance.
Catch this conversation then
find me, if you like,
with bubble-eyes falling in love
with Autumn’s cotton sky.

by Sal Harris, Scotland, for the “Grises”, 2016.


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