Above us, umbrellas hang rib-first, nylon stretched into bright, obedient curves. Names repeat along their skins, letters bending with the fabric. Metal lines pin the sky in place.
Below, footsteps soften, voices fold into the brick. The street keeps going, colour after colour, until the grey beyond the glass is no longer the point.
Above us,
umbrellas hang rib-first,
nylon stretched into bright, obedient curves.
Names repeat along their skins,
letters bending with the fabric.
Metal lines pin the sky in place.
Below, footsteps soften,
voices fold into the brick.
The street keeps going,
colour after colour,
until the grey beyond the glass
is no longer the point.
What a lovely poem 🙂