Writing poetry onto umbrellas
Is easy to do: words in spirals, shapes and swirls.
Written by pen, indelible, like art itself.
In pubs and cafes around the cities North and South,
collecting umbrellas from establishments,
gains curiosity among the staff,
and for a moment something new,
breaks into the everyday.
Brollies left in squares and street corners
as a silent, secret, exchange
the mystery of where, when and how.
The touring is the purest joy really:
travel as creation
the bleary eyes in a Glasgow bus centre at 4AM
or the walk into Edinburgh as the sun flung itself into the sky
The Paddy’s Day entrourage the pissed up punters of Birmingham pubs
The long, long journeys so full of the crackle of joy the mundane uplifted
or the trip back to the alma mater, the umbrella laid outside the faculty
all done with love, but also a mind full of both the beauty and the folly
of a journey that means more to me
but maybe something to those who swept up the umbrellas
without a name or way to reply.
Just another strange statement, among many
That somehow sum up, just what it is,
to be us.