Amply

Amply

The hedgerows stretch their limbs over the summer’s long day,
the hedgerows sigh, “I get it – give me amply, you’ll see,”*
the breeze whistles through the orchards, a spiced‑oats melt,
and a robin, all paint‑stroke bright, sings over rivers’ amply—
(“amply” becomes a promise, a bounty, a quiet creed.)

At the village square, a baker’s dough rises in rhythm,
his fingers knead a soft loaf, his apron stained amply,
the scent of crumbling buns, a familiar, sugared anthem,
and with a smile that stretches the shop’s bright glass,
he offers another loaf “amply, free for the country’s heart.”

In the drawing room, an elderly lady of the Rix portrait;
the children laugh at her tea‑cups poured amply, their voices hang,
while the dog, a weary poodle, sprawls along the rug,
her fingers trace the deep‑red roses by the window’s rim—
she holds the world in her hands, gently and amply.

The night falls, and the streets light the Thames in silver,
the city hums like a distant drum, its energy amply,
and we, folded in blankets under the lantern’s flicker,
remember that each sunrise offers more than we seek,
a trove of "amply" moments baked into the dawn.