Poetry

Tim Suermondt

UMBRELLAS IN ZURICH
 
A red one, wide open,
falls from the bridge, skipping
a bit on the water before
floating downriver in the direction
of the platoon of swans.
Someone must have lost the grip
but no one saw who it was,
myself included. As I continue
along the bank a woman
with her small umbrella passes by,
both of them white as ghosts
in the light of the early day.