Poetry 

By Dorrie Johnson

An orange umbrella  (Displayed in Birmingham Library)

It was an orange umbrella;

not the orange of the fruit

but the sizzling orange at the heart

of a burning sunset.

You held it up high and proud.

It was an orange umbrella;

not the slow orange of ripening rosehips

but the quickening orange of a butterfly’s wing.

You learnt to twirl and spin it.

It was an orange umbrella;

not the orange of a marigold

but the glistening orange of a goldfish

in dark pond weeds.

It was an orange umbrella.

You were six.

You lost it.

You cried –

         not for the umbrella, but for the loss of orange.

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