Laden

Laden in the mist of early dawn,
A lorry rumbles down the lane,
Its chassis bowed beneath the weight
Of crates that spill their ruby rain—
Apples bruised, yet sweetly bright,
Each one a whisper of the orchard’s sigh.

The driver’s hands, calloused and warm,
Grip the wheel as clouds unfold,
While thoughts, like cargo, shift and sway—
Memories laden, stories told.

A child’s laugh, a mother’s hymn,
The scent of wet earth after rain,
All tucked beneath the tarpaulin’s fold,
A quiet load that eases strain.

When the sun climbs high and gold,
The lorry pauses at the market square,
Stalls awash with colour, chatter,
Queues that snake like patient hare.

Here the burden finds release,
Each crate unburdened, shared, confessed—
The heart, once heavy, feels the ease
Of giving what it once possessed.

So let us be laden, not with dread,
But with kindness, hope, and grace—
For every load we humbly bear
Can lift another’s weary face.