Up

Up

Up, the word that carries our breath on the wind,
the first stretch of light over a town’s cobbled edge,
where the sky greets the Thames in soft azure—
a promise in every sunrise, a sigh in every dusk.

Up, the gentle ladder of a Saturday,
ascending the lanes of Oxford, the stone‑bound whisper of chalked classes,
where students lean over tea‑scented A‑s,
and ideas leap from the desks like sparrows to the eaves.

Up, the quiet triumph of the moor’s windward face,
the ridge‑carved platform where wind‑tossed kites dance
with the hills of Lancashire, and the sighing eaves of thatched roofs.
It is where the pigeons settle, their quiet weight a counter‑balance to the breath of the heavens.

Up, that small promise in children’s play,
the splash of each leap from the garden’s gravelly play‑ground,
the pole vault of the playground, the son of a sport that defies gravity with only a chain of incorruptible courage.

Up, the one direction that tries to scatter our doubts,
a soft illumination of purpose and quiet ache,
a rest against the cold wind, the sun’s white lantern,
a forever promise that we go somewhere sweeter than the start of the day.

Up, and as we keep, we’ll always find the gleam of light
in our ears, in our eyes, in the memory harred by the heart;
where the fluttering of the blue, the lady‑birds, and the song of the front door to the world that we can then take home.