Umbrellas

The water casts a straight shadow

Lines of sorrow form from a dreary sky

Drops race and they streak down

A contest of a million racers and no winners.

Down and down they race, faster and faster

Their faces distorted and shaped by the breath of wind

They seek the blackened ground with irrational desire

STOP.

HALT.

GO NO FURTHER.

THIS IS A SAD TIME ON A SAD DAY.

So speaks blackened ground of fabric and rubber,

The voice is silent as thunder.

The contestants arc, undeterred by a false finish.

The dreariness of the black has no bearing on their excitement.

A journey has only begun and must be finished.

The racers roll off one ground and onto another.

The race is just started, after all.

They roll away, disappointed.

They’d hoped to cheer up the black wall

They wanted it to join their happy race to the ocean.

In the end, they don’t mind.

They won’t be another sad thing on a sad day.

The children of the clouds excuse themselves and hurry past,

All the while chattering in their own song and verses:

‘Plip-plop plip-plop plippa-popple-popple’

“See you at the coast. May the best drop win.”

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