Speed

Speed

In Britain’s quiet valleys, the wind whispers “tarry,”
Yet rushes through the city like a freight train on the rails,
A heart that pounds as fast as a foot‑pad’s beat,
Colour the air with daring, unfurling steam‑new tales.

The speed limit’s law is carved on glass‑faced signs,
A polite reminder to a chauffeur’s soul to slow.
Even the London Double‑Decker’s copper‑red line,
Could share a breath with a Bolt‑type hero’s glow.

Sirens blur the Thames’s gentle tide,
While a cyclist steers through quiet streets, a focused blaze.
In a quiet ward of patient mice, a photon’s stride
Outruns the sluggish thought that hours often raise.

Speed is not only velocity, but the fragile act of choice,
A moment’s breath that may, or may not, catch your gaze.
In British terms, it’s quickness, an adventurous voice—
A promise kept, a page turned, a life that chooses ways.