Wiser

Wiser

In the quiet of a London dawn,
when the mist still clings to the Thames,
I watch the red‑double‑decker glide
past the flat where I once kept my dreams.

Years have folded like the pages of a well‑thumbed novel,
each crease a lesson learnt in the queue at the chemist,
in the hushed conversations over a cuppa in the pub,
in the steady tread of a lorry on the rain‑slicked motorway.

I have learned to favour patience over haste,
to see the colour in a grey‑sky afternoon,
to realise that wisdom is not a destination
but the gentle hum of a programme running softly in the mind.

Now my steps are lighter, my thoughts clearer,
as I walk past the market stalls, the baker’s warm loaf,
the children’s laughter echoing from the park’s centre,
and I know—truly know—that I am wiser,
not because I have all the answers,
but because I have learned to sit with the questions,
to sip my tea, and let the world unfold
in its own good time.