The clouds are grey but still,
Unmoving, unchanging, floating
Weightless in the autumn air.

There is no need for an umbrella,
And so hers swings by her side,
Neatly folded but extended
In case the sky turns on her.

Shiny silvery metal catches
What little midday light there is
As it gleams between
Gloss black fabric and
Matt black plastic.

She is a small island of blue and
Monochrome in an ocean of
Red bricks, of the sky and not
Of this Earth, footsteps fading
Into the clamour of lunchtime.

10/30/2024

Posted on 03/01/2025
Copyright © 2025 Richard Vince