Harvest!

My umbrella buffeted, an open drum,

I
cross flagstones at full swing, linger

at stalls, to
pin rosettes to prize-winning horse-faced
grannies,

tasting blackberry jam while avoiding the
seeds, scooping

up marmalade and pumpkin guts. Too
busy

licking thumbs, the blonde cyclist comes out of
nowhere,

skidding on wet paving, olives
flying.

The back wheel spins - juice
spurts.

My umbrella through me, a Roman
sword.