Vocal

In the hush of morning, a vocal thread
Weaves through the mist, a soft, uneven spread—
A neighbour’s hum from the flat upstairs,
A lorry’s low growl on the wet‑cobbled stairs.

She realises her voice is a quiet defence,
A colour‑bright shield against common sense,
While football chants rise from the park’s green centre,
And the theatre’s echo swells, sweet and tense.

From pavement‑side poets to the choir’s bright flight,
Each vocalisation claims its own light—
A programme of whispers, a song, a decree,
British in spirit, unbound and free.