The Girl With the Yellow Umbrella
It was a grey afternoon in November
when he first saw the girl in the park
hunched under her yellow umbrella
the clouds overhead massing dark.
She sat on a seat in the drizzle
but it seemed that she waited in vain
for he watched her for nearly an hour
sitting patient — but nobody came.
At last, with the rain drumming harder
and the dregs of the day almost gone
she relinquished her damp, lonely vigil
stood up and prepared to move on.
She followed the path to the gateway
then lingered beside the stone wall
looking back at the seat in the twilight
through the curtaining rain’s steady fall.
The dome of her yellow umbrella
stood out from the dullness around
and her figure, so slight in its shelter
seemed to symbolize passion profound.
Drawn in by this underplayed drama
the park keeper kept her in sight
intrigued by a vision romantic
with the backdrop of oncoming night.
He trailed her along the wet pavement
and into the shop-shuttered town
with pedestrians scarce after home-time
still the cold, squally rain pelting down.
Then she vanished as though in an eye-blink
like she’d suddenly walked off the stage —
not a sign of her yellow umbrella
its clear image entirely erased.
The thrall inexplicably broken
he called in at the pub for a drink
didn’t speak to a soul while he pondered
’til he lost sober power to think.
He dreamed of her often — so vivid
he imagined her face and her hair
her voice so familiar and loving
while reality offered despair.
He searched through the park — always hopeful
she might, unannounced, reappear
but the days blurred to weeks until Christmas
and his emptiness felt the more drear.
Christmas Eve — and he locked the park early.
All was still — the ducks slept by the lake.
In the water a crust of ice forming
purple sky looming low without break.
He returned on a whim — some vague fancy
insisted he go back and check
and there on the seat she was waiting ...
a sharp chill pricked the hair on his neck.
She glowed from beneath her umbrella
her skin a strange luminous white
then she called out his name — smiled a greeting
and the knot in his stomach grew tight.
As the first flakes of snow floated earthwards
she held out her hand with delight
then blew him a kiss soft as feathers
and whirled away into the night.
They found him frostbitten — unconscious
those snowballing kids Christmas morn
who’d short-cutted through the park’s playground
his body curled stiff — scarcely warm.
Three days he lay deep in a coma.
On the fourth he began to revive
and he seemed to the nurse who was witness
all bemused — hardly glad or alive
but held fast in the grip of depression
so strong it took patience to break.
His sweet nurse proved an angel by nature
and she worked round the clock for his sake.
By midsummer, his health had recovered
and his thoughts were the everyday kind.
The girl with the yellow umbrella
didn’t trouble his calm state of mind.
So he went back to work for a season.
All was well ’til November the eighth
just a year from the first time he saw her
and it rained cats and dogs on that date.
His hut in the park was left open
his keys on a hook by the door
and nobody could say what had happened
for the signs weren’t the same as before.
By the time they’d reported him missing
it was late and the pubs were all closed
so his nearest and dearest concluded
things were graver than they had supposed.
There was one — only one — distant sighting
from a vagrant whose eyesight was poor
who mentioned a yellow umbrella —
it was dark, so he couldn’t be sure
but he thought he had seen the park keeper
with a woman — pale skinned and dark haired —
they stood close — very close — as rain pelted
and he held the umbrella they shared...
He has never been found and his story
spread wide as the legend evolved
with the truth buried somewhere in fiction
and the case left entirely unsolved.
There were clues — just a few — in his diary
from the dream-haunted life that he’d led
so obsessed with the yellow umbrella —
mind caught like a fly in a web.
Who she was was a question unanswered.
Did the girl perhaps only exist
as a figment of lonely invention —
his delusion the ultimate twist?
There were those who kept watch on the offchance —
ghost hunters and psychics who held
séances — but failed to make contact
their spiritual theories dispelled.
Then the focus of lurid attention —
that quite unremarkable seat
was moved to another location
the new management thought more discreet.
Well, nobody knew how it happened
but the seat appeared back in its place
as though spirited there by strange forces —
transported across time and space.
Which spooked the replacement park keeper
who resigned in a fit of despair.
He’d the look of a man going crazy —
shocked white to the roots of his hair.
Years went by... There were no further whispers
of anything odd or bizarre
so the story was almost forgotten
the way that such tales often are.
Then, on a chill day the end of November
a yellow umbrella was seen
afloat on the lake’s murky water
its spokes stuck among the weed’s green.
The umbrella was old and well-rusted
its fabric quite faded and holed
the frame being horribly twisted
and the yellow blotched over with mould.
It took a strong arm to retrieve it —
untangle and pull the thing free
for the ooze held a terrible secret
it seemed loathe to give up easily.
Curled close to the ebony handle
something gleamed pale as roots brought to light —
there were five finger bones grasping nothing
but mud and a wet, endless night.
They dug down and discovered two bodies
locked tight in a tender embrace
and though some ghastly deed was suspected
the authorities found not a trace.
They were both laid to rest in the churchyard
on the grave that they share is a cross
carved with only the barest of details
their worldly identities lost.
“To the memory of nameless lovers
Both drowned in a lake long ago
Now forever at peace — their life's story
Cradled safe in the darkness below...”
What became of the yellow umbrella
is unknown. Yet, for some, there remains
each November a dread she’s still waiting
in the park, around dark, when it rains.
when he first saw the girl in the park
hunched under her yellow umbrella
the clouds overhead massing dark.
She sat on a seat in the drizzle
but it seemed that she waited in vain
for he watched her for nearly an hour
sitting patient — but nobody came.
At last, with the rain drumming harder
and the dregs of the day almost gone
she relinquished her damp, lonely vigil
stood up and prepared to move on.
She followed the path to the gateway
then lingered beside the stone wall
looking back at the seat in the twilight
through the curtaining rain’s steady fall.
The dome of her yellow umbrella
stood out from the dullness around
and her figure, so slight in its shelter
seemed to symbolize passion profound.
Drawn in by this underplayed drama
the park keeper kept her in sight
intrigued by a vision romantic
with the backdrop of oncoming night.
He trailed her along the wet pavement
and into the shop-shuttered town
with pedestrians scarce after home-time
still the cold, squally rain pelting down.
Then she vanished as though in an eye-blink
like she’d suddenly walked off the stage —
not a sign of her yellow umbrella
its clear image entirely erased.
The thrall inexplicably broken
he called in at the pub for a drink
didn’t speak to a soul while he pondered
’til he lost sober power to think.
He dreamed of her often — so vivid
he imagined her face and her hair
her voice so familiar and loving
while reality offered despair.
He searched through the park — always hopeful
she might, unannounced, reappear
but the days blurred to weeks until Christmas
and his emptiness felt the more drear.
Christmas Eve — and he locked the park early.
All was still — the ducks slept by the lake.
In the water a crust of ice forming
purple sky looming low without break.
He returned on a whim — some vague fancy
insisted he go back and check
and there on the seat she was waiting ...
a sharp chill pricked the hair on his neck.
She glowed from beneath her umbrella
her skin a strange luminous white
then she called out his name — smiled a greeting
and the knot in his stomach grew tight.
As the first flakes of snow floated earthwards
she held out her hand with delight
then blew him a kiss soft as feathers
and whirled away into the night.
They found him frostbitten — unconscious
those snowballing kids Christmas morn
who’d short-cutted through the park’s playground
his body curled stiff — scarcely warm.
Three days he lay deep in a coma.
On the fourth he began to revive
and he seemed to the nurse who was witness
all bemused — hardly glad or alive
but held fast in the grip of depression
so strong it took patience to break.
His sweet nurse proved an angel by nature
and she worked round the clock for his sake.
By midsummer, his health had recovered
and his thoughts were the everyday kind.
The girl with the yellow umbrella
didn’t trouble his calm state of mind.
So he went back to work for a season.
All was well ’til November the eighth
just a year from the first time he saw her
and it rained cats and dogs on that date.
His hut in the park was left open
his keys on a hook by the door
and nobody could say what had happened
for the signs weren’t the same as before.
By the time they’d reported him missing
it was late and the pubs were all closed
so his nearest and dearest concluded
things were graver than they had supposed.
There was one — only one — distant sighting
from a vagrant whose eyesight was poor
who mentioned a yellow umbrella —
it was dark, so he couldn’t be sure
but he thought he had seen the park keeper
with a woman — pale skinned and dark haired —
they stood close — very close — as rain pelted
and he held the umbrella they shared...
He has never been found and his story
spread wide as the legend evolved
with the truth buried somewhere in fiction
and the case left entirely unsolved.
There were clues — just a few — in his diary
from the dream-haunted life that he’d led
so obsessed with the yellow umbrella —
mind caught like a fly in a web.
Who she was was a question unanswered.
Did the girl perhaps only exist
as a figment of lonely invention —
his delusion the ultimate twist?
There were those who kept watch on the offchance —
ghost hunters and psychics who held
séances — but failed to make contact
their spiritual theories dispelled.
Then the focus of lurid attention —
that quite unremarkable seat
was moved to another location
the new management thought more discreet.
Well, nobody knew how it happened
but the seat appeared back in its place
as though spirited there by strange forces —
transported across time and space.
Which spooked the replacement park keeper
who resigned in a fit of despair.
He’d the look of a man going crazy —
shocked white to the roots of his hair.
Years went by... There were no further whispers
of anything odd or bizarre
so the story was almost forgotten
the way that such tales often are.
Then, on a chill day the end of November
a yellow umbrella was seen
afloat on the lake’s murky water
its spokes stuck among the weed’s green.
The umbrella was old and well-rusted
its fabric quite faded and holed
the frame being horribly twisted
and the yellow blotched over with mould.
It took a strong arm to retrieve it —
untangle and pull the thing free
for the ooze held a terrible secret
it seemed loathe to give up easily.
Curled close to the ebony handle
something gleamed pale as roots brought to light —
there were five finger bones grasping nothing
but mud and a wet, endless night.
They dug down and discovered two bodies
locked tight in a tender embrace
and though some ghastly deed was suspected
the authorities found not a trace.
They were both laid to rest in the churchyard
on the grave that they share is a cross
carved with only the barest of details
their worldly identities lost.
“To the memory of nameless lovers
Both drowned in a lake long ago
Now forever at peace — their life's story
Cradled safe in the darkness below...”
What became of the yellow umbrella
is unknown. Yet, for some, there remains
each November a dread she’s still waiting
in the park, around dark, when it rains.
|
