A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
Summary: A poem about someone’s odd fascination with a mysterious woman walking in the rain.
A/N: It’s been a while since I tried to fake some poetry, apologies, but I still wanted to.
Woman With Umbrella And Cat
She only ever took her long walks on rainy days,
With a black umbrella, a poncho, and cat on a lead.
Always on the bridge, but then different ways,
With barely a pause for a caffé and sweet bread.
I saw her three times before I figured it out,
About the rain, the umbrella, and the cat.
Sienna-brown skin, coppery fringe, full lips in a permanent pout,
Except for long legs, her poncho hid anything more than that.
I followed, feet leading me, not engaging my brain,
Caught in the wake of someone novel, something new.
No plan, no intent, just my steps following hers in the rain,
I walked, looked where she did, bought caffé and bread, too.
It wasn’t the who, so much as the why that held me,
Why only in the rain, why the cat, and always alone?
Through the Autumn rains, creating fantasies of who she might be,
I loitered on the bridge, then followed till my feet were like cold stone.
I never gained the courage to stop her, to ask the truth of her,
Until the days the rain fell and she never showed, for weeks, nothing.
Still I hoped, going from the bridge to all the places she and the cat were,
I felt a fool, aching with a thirst I could never now slake, left wanting.
By the time I believed she had gone, tracing her trails and ways,
A raincoated shadow, cautious and present, had fallen into my wake.
And it wasn’t till I saw her three times, in as many days,
That I knew I was the mystery now, a conundrum for my own sake.
She ambled along as I wandered, bought a caffé, a pastry, also,
I couldn’t find my strange stranger, but another found me.
I couldn’t help wonder, did my own mysterious stranger know?
When she strolled here and there, her ‘I’ oddly become ‘we’.
Now I lead her to outdoor markets, to street-side galleries we go,
She samples the same things as I, looks where I look, week after week.
It grew colder, and I found my courage grew with the inevitability of snow,
Finally, when the rain turned to sleet, I would stop, turn, and we would speak.