Blossom Bowl

The hands stretched out of the umbrella holding a touch of naughty strawberry. A bowl in a scent. Carried, in a light blue blossom container today. Around it, a wrapper of drops, rain, industrial rain, but clear. The kind the pavement likes. The kind that makes British pavement shine. And scent expanding, on the buzz and mumble of pubs and canteens in today's modern day, eclipsing the fast foodness of it all. Not today. No. London, out for lunch, husband and wife, and pudding. And on, across expansive bridges that made her feel important, cleansed, and warmer. War has ended, we have won? Literally: winter came to an end. Out of an umbrella, hands glaring on the sunglasses of the London lady, in her early thirties, her hands, everywhere, on the cobble corner, of the bridge. London, Spring.