Green Book

Green Book

In springtime’s embrace, the page is locked in leaves of the earth’s own green,
A parchment map that hums the quiet pledge of “Here on the road you’ll see.”
Its ink, a quiet whisper, records a concert of strangers who convene,
Two souls, one wheel, one rhythm, and a hum of a title that they carry.

The figure by the guitar, a man whose fingers make the chords climb,
Whilst the driver, polished by rum‑soaked nights, steadies the very heart of the town.
The streets that glide beneath their wheels because the pages stay a prime,
In this book, dialects merge: “What’s the cuppa?” meets a “Where’s the badget?” round.

Outside the frames, the Thames runs silver, and the cities shout “Cheerio!”
The book’s green is a colour of hope, a sourdough crust in somewhere young.
The catalogue lures a thousand, from Manchester to Soho, horizons,
Each line a promise: “We’ll walk in unity, no matter what the setting’s rung.”

When done, the book lies folded, its margin a story of survival,
Each line a badge of courage, not to be hidden beneath the weight of railway lights.
A poem in itself, the Green Book is a quiet testament to human iron,
In spartan pages, the irony: how shine, if you keep it open, it prospers.