Oomph

Oomph

In the quiet of a Sunday market,
where the clink of cymbals feels like a heart’s call,
a knackered man's mug sways—
yet something inside, a thrum, whispers ‘umph’.

We line the street with lazy dainty petals,
but without a splash of daring, colours drown in beige,
the peanut brittle tastes bland—no bite, no edge,
so we fling a chuck of oomph, like rain on a drain.

Our speeches, often polite, can be earnest,
but when we slam that kettle aside, “Bring the fire!” lands,
the silence shatters, boots hit the cobbles with a clatter,
and the pub’s low murmurs rise into cheer.

Oomph is the hush that wins the game,
the cap of a favourite at high‑class tea,
a quick wink that says “We’ll see the world still”—
little sparks, brighter than any storm’s decree.

So let the kettle boil, let the cart float, let the queue break
— drop a grain, drop a heart, let your second breath flex—
for all the life that drifts in the dull moments,
is breathing back in oomph from the next.