Umbrella
In heavying drizzle
you accepted my umbrella.
Your hand did not touch mine
drawing me back
from another brink,
uncovering words
long buried.
Weeping curls
licked my face.
Crushed juniper berries
in my hand,
measuring your silence,
distance paced in misted space
of maples dripping by the track,
cold wires tickled
down my back.
You, looking for light
along that thyme-lined path,
I, hearing you move on within,
without me, just a shadow
accompanying this quiet rain.
Jane Angué teaches English Language and Literature in France. Writing in French and English, work has appeared most recently in Le Capital des Mots, Amethyst, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Acumen and Poésie/première. A pamphlet, des fleurs pour Bach, was published in 2019 (Editions Encres Vives).
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