Chide

Chide

In a quiet London flat, the kettle hisses,
The kettle that recites its loyal verse with steam—
and in the kitchen air, a soft voice rises,
A gentle hand that noses the boy's letterless dream.

“Mate, your cricket bat is lying on the floor;
Do you not know that the fielder watches?
Your foot was high—skipping toward the score—
A reckless dash, a gambit that grows older.”

The chide, a measured pulse of old‑world wisdom,
Doth not yank as a tempest, nor cut as a knife
Instead it knows the cadence of British lawson,
A father's gentle caution, the charge of a life.

And there, amid the fern and the tea‑bottle's clink,
The child weighs what the scold has “fixed”:
A lesson in patience, a yield in a wink,
The honest rustle of a bustling Sunday link.

Later when the lorry rumbles homeward,
The prudent man remembers the chide,
A warm thread ’twixt folly and order,
A banter that binds the aftermath of pride.

So let us lace each stern remark with care—
For “chide” is not a vice, but a truth’s thin sleeve
A British compass of early clatter, an open door,
In the heart of the hearth where we all gather and relieve.