Gloss

Gloss

Upon the oak‑paneled study, a varnish gleams—
a quiet gloss that catches the lamplight’s soft beams,
turning grain to a river of amber, smooth and deep,
as if the wood itself had learned to sleep
in a coat of honey‑kissed resin, bright and sincere.

Beside it lies a leather‑bound tome, its pages worn,
where marginal notes in ink‑black form
a scholarly gloss, a whisper‑thin veneer
that explains the cryptic, makes the obscure clear—
each footnote a tiny lantern, guiding the reader’s tread
through forests of Latin and threads of thought unsaid.

The city outside wears its own kind of gloss:
wet pavements after rain, a mirror‑like toss
of neon signs reflected in puddles shallow and wide,
lorries sighing past, their chrome sides catching pride.
Even the flat’s polished doorhandle, cool to the touch,
offers a brief, bright salute to those who clutch
the handle and step inside, seeking refuge from the drizzle—
a momentary shine that turns the ordinary to a crisper fissle.

Yet gloss can also be a veil, a thin, polite coat
that smooths over rough edges, a genteel note
that says, “All is well,” while the truth may linger,
a polite varnish over cracks that still linger.
We learn to read both kinds—the surface that shines,
and the quiet comment that truth defines—
for in every gloss, whether varnish or word,
lies the promise of clarity, softly heard.