Umbrellas

And the dippy, french-love tune
sings da-ba-da in my head,
though I'm not in Cherbourg,
but Madrid.

Every nyloned spike is turned
in my direction while
the rain is falling mainly
on the plain.

Meanwhile, Moroccans and Angolans
offer me my own weapon:
but five euros for a 50 cent
umbrella?

But the sun comes out - sudden -
splashes mellow yellow on
flagstones wearing rainbows
in puddles.