Couch

On the well‑worn settee,
the fabric sighs beneath my weight,
soft cushions cradle like a promise,
their threads a quiet, familiar weave.

Evening light slips through the curtains,
casting amber pools across the arm,
while the cat curls in the hollow,
purring a lullaby of home.

In moments still, the couch becomes
an island where thoughts drift slow,
a harbour for the day's repose,
where silence settles, deep and true.

So here I linger, cushioned close,
watching shadows stretch and fade,
grateful for this humble throne—
my steadfast, faithful, British couch.