Ankle

Ankle

In the hush of a London dawn I step, The cobbles echo, a subtle, honest thump, A soldier’s joint where road meets brick, The ankle whispers when the day is slick.

I crisscross terraced lanes, stride by stride, With each footfall a tender, gentle ride Between calf and foot, a hinge so deft, A pivot of grace, in rain or sunset.

I remember the rugby pitch, the clash, The bone‑splitting push, the wind‑blown lash. An ankle wrapped, a bandage wrapped in pride, A Brit’s resolve against a sudden slide.

On the football field I back‑pass, pass the ball, Hear the whistle flare, the crowd’s brassy call. The ankle’s spin, a dancer’s twist of fate, Turns a mere footfall into a spark of slate.

Behind the tea‑bag, the kettle’s hiss, A painful sprain that bids me not to miss The Sunday garden, the kettle’s steam, An ankle that still begs more time for dream.

Colourful poppies in the park’s flush, Glen’s old canvas, a hidden hush. I watch the ankle’s silent, silent sigh, As it shifts from hope to a weary sky.

Should it break, I’ll call the MRCG, The Medics will hand me a pink plaster ring. I’ll sit on the sofa, the news flicking in, In reflection, ankle is a seam.

So listen: in every step, in every glide, The ankle hums a tune I’t feel, I pride; A joint so simple, yet a story deep, I salute it — “cheers”, for the ankles that keep.