Soul

Beyond the bone‑bare shell of flesh
where pulse and breath run through our veins,
there lies a quiet, restless body
that Britain’s storm‑choked hills once called its own.

It sings in the hush of rain‑slick cobbles,
in the sigh of the old oak at the edge of the town.
The soul is less a thing than a flickering light,
a stubborn ember that refuses to be smothered by night.

It is the feel of wind around a cottage roof,
the way a child’s laugh flits through a courtyard.
There is a part of us that watches from the centre of the world,
sees us all, aches with us, and knows the weight of each step.

If you are a quiet soul, you listen and you learn,
you hear the bitter‑sweet chamomile of hope,
you taste the melancholy of a past half‑forgotten,
and you remember the warmth that never fades.

In the dimming dawn, beneath a bruised sky,
the soul hums a quiet song unheard by most,
a whispered creed: “I am more than bone;
I am the wandering heart, the lantern’s blaze, the eternal boast.”

So pause beyond the gate where you think you are;
you’re not only the man in the morning fat cigarette,
you’re the weld, wisp, wild, wind – the quiet soul that carries all
Britain’s secret song they call “tonight.”