Pink Umbrellas in November. (Rewritten).

Mums carrying pink umbrellas in the rain,

Maytime umbrellas in squalid mid November

When all is grey and dark and dripping wet,

Mist liquid grey dissolving sunset red.

Snow is promised early in December, yet

These pink umbrellas make me mourn for Easter;-

Plum blossom blown to shreds; church bells

                                           shaking windows.

Children - less aware of changing seasons

Than we, fat bellied, aching, hostile adults,

Lugging bags of shopping up the hill -

Skip and scream beneath the pink umbrellas

As if they pranced through ornamental fountains

One final time before the new term starts:

One final time before the swallows exit.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

November 20th. 2020. - Rewritten January 28th. 2021.

Poem number six in my sequence of November poems.