Scene

A Scene in Many Hats

In the hush of a cobbled lane, the cobblestones still
whisper with the rattle of lorry wheels and tea‑time chatter;
the early-morning mist unfurls a soft, diffuse veil,
and every window glows with a faint, amber flicker.

At the corner of that scene, a red double‑decker climbs
up the hill, riders on its back like spirited pigeons;
the clatter of the choir from the choir‑room below
spills out, its brass notes mingling with the city’s pulse.

Turn the light and you find a stay‑away of green,
a patch of wheat waving like a sea of gold in the breeze;
the crackle of a bonfire in the distant night,
and the laughter of friends under a clear, silver sky.

On the stage, a weighty drama unfurls—
the actors wear their hearts as masks, the lights a tang‑tang drum;
a line of dialogue breathes through the hush,
each word a chord, each silence a lyric.

A seaside scene under a slimmer sun,
the waves dancing in long, curling arcs, the gulls breaking the quiet;
the salty breeze mingles with the scent of kettle–corn from a nearby stall—
a small, gritty bite of a British summer.

In every corner, a different motif—
a late night train pulling into a station, an old pub with a wobbly sign,
a child’s first step across a bridge in the fog,
and a distant match, the football field gleaming in the light of the evening.

But what ties them together, the common thread?
The notion that each moment is a fleeting scene—
a composition of sound, light, and colour,
a snapshot pure, no more, no less, made for us to see.