Puffy

It’s not the cloud, nor sleep-deprived eye,
Nor bread that’s left too long to rise –
No, puffy lives where quiet things comply:
The teabag’s slow, reluctant sigh
As it swells and dunks in ceramic mug,
A tiny moon in milky haze;
While custard creams, in biscuit-tug,
Yield just a soft resistance, then give way.

It’s in the sofa’s deep, embraced fold
Where Saturday’s slow programme starts,
The cushion yielding, warm and old,
Accepting all Saturday’s hearts.
Not Marmite’s peak (though bold, not glum),
Nor crisps that shatter, sharp and loud –
But this: the moment peace has come,
And weekday tension sinks, unbowed,
Into the stuffing’s gentle hug –
A quiet, warm, immensely puffy rug.

So here’s to puff: not grand or grandiloquent,
But found where comfort takes its seat –
The kettle’s whisper, streets transient,
And weekend’s soft, repeated beat
Of simply being, low and slow,
Where even air feels lightly stirred…
That’s the true puff we Brits all know:
Not swollen pride, but peace conferred.
Now pass the dunk – the fun’s begun…
Ah, proper puffy weekend’s come.