Instead of a boat or a hat,
she made an umbrella
out of yesterday’s news.

And it kept her dry,
for a time, the figures and
photographs above her blotting.

The prism light catches
these splashes, the block
black headlines running

though, smudging, staining
her face, her skin. She
doesn’t watch the water

rinse the ghost stories,
folk tales – she can only
shelter. From the shower

she ducks past newsagents,
stalls, stands,
into a bookshop,

closing the skeletal frame
of her lifeless umbrella
behind her. These books

are built to last more than
one use, like trees, branches
spread over her like blankets.

She wraps herself up like
a present in the leaves,
the stripes solid, unchanged,

and they flow in the air
of her movement like a
sun dress.