Spring’s Canvas

Spring has descended
with all her savage fury,
altering the urban landscape
as office workers scuttle to their cars,
umbrellas held aloft.

A raindrop scurries downward,
helpless against gravity’s endless allure.
Reflecting a microscopic world
in a single bead of water.

Sodden, slippery leaves,
trampled.
A smooshed mess of
autumnal browns
abandoned for the newest spring fashions.

Bloated with dark malcontent,
clouds glare,
spitting contempt
and disapproval.
Roiling, a mass of greys
and charcoal.

Broken umbrellas,
discarded,
abandoned.
A splotch of vivid fuschia
with arms askew
and limbs in awkward disarray.

Each puddle a glossy mirror,
disturbed by every vibration,
rippling in concentric circles.
Drinking greedily and
lying in wait to confront the unwary.

Blades of grass
bending under a soggy burden,
flummoxed by the sheer weight of sweet rain water.
Glossy and shiny
in the dim glow of streetlights,
bowing face down to the ground.

Half a man’s boot print in the mud,
outlined in deep, rich brown ridges.
Mouldable,
yet vulnerable to a swift demise.

A rust stained drain,
sturdy arms outstretched,
undaunted by torrential forces.
Unbending,
unrelenting,
staunchly parallel
and dead straight.

Twigs wrenched from shelter,
tossed and thrown about the street
at the whim of the wind and rain.
A small fork,
with one tine a touch shorter
than the other.

A scrap of paper,
once crisp, now soggy,
drowning in depths it can’t absorb.
Bleached of colour,
its ink washed away
along with all meaning and purpose.

The street is a canvas of mottled grey
and dark shadows,
painted with the amber glow of
streetlights and headlights.
Spring’s violent rampage
steals the scene.