Heat

Heat – the quiet, restless pulse that sways

through London’s gravel and the moor’s broad green

where the sun, a naked clock, ticks forward

and every shadow is a sigh that holds

a piece of the day yet to be born.

On the South Bank, the Thames has turned

to glassy heat, reflecting the blaze

of tram lights and café’s steam‑kissed faces, and stone benches bask in a golden hush,

as if the river itself is breathing

a slow, unhurried summer note.

Beyond the city’s hum, the countryside

lets a scorch spill over grass and gutter

where the crow cries loud in the heat‑laced air

and the hedgerows keep a steady breath,

shifting white to amber in the noon.

Heat can be a drumbeat in a football—

the roar of a crowd, the hiss of engines,

the whistle of a referee´s whistle,

and the cool sweat that trails along

the cheeks of a goalkeeper, a wry grin—

a reminder that the game is both living and dying

within the furnace of the stadium lights.

Yet, there is also a gentler heat—

the scent of clotted cream in a wind‑blown aisle

of a countryside shop, the soft murmur

of a chimney’s ember in a cosy kitchen,

and the daily ritual of tea at a cradled cup

as the kettle climbs to a hiss, the steam rising

like a sigh above the kettle’s whistle.

Heat is a paradox: it consumes and comforts;

it can scorch and soothe the soul

and in each instance, the British heart

sways between the burning and the quiet, ever

watchful of the touch of the sun, and

grateful for the memory of the night’s cool.