Glint

Glint

In the still hush of a London afternoon,
the sun drips gold over streets that have seen wars—
a flash, a glint, on the polished brass of the double‑decked cab,
shining through the soot‑smudged windows like a promise.

On the Thames, where the old cranes rest,
a solitary glint skitters across the water,
a fleeting wink of a far‑away castle,
echoing the hope in a child’s bright eyes.

Under the canopy of birches in a country lane,
a glint catches the iron of a farmer’s ladle,
a glimmer of grain‑dusted mornings
and the quiet determination of a seedling.

Even in the dark alley of a neon‑lit night,
a glint escapes from the cracked window of a shop,
reflecting the flicker of a cigarette ember,
reminding us that even in gloom, a spark endures.

So let us chase that fleeting glint—
not the blaze, but the precise, shimmering hint
that light takes from the dusk, the crystal, the steel,
and that within its brevity, a whole world feels.