Newington

In Newington’s quiet streets the morning light
spills over brick façades, a soft amber hue,
where the pavement glistens after a gentle rain,
and the scent of fresh bread drifts from the corner shop.

Children’s laughter echoes from the playground swing,
their voices mingling with the distant hum of a lorry
as it rolls slowly past the terraced rows,
each window a framed portrait of everyday life.

The old chapel stands, its stone walls steadfast,
stained‑glass colours whispering tales of Sundays past,
while nearby, the community garden bursts
with rosemary, thyme, and the bright faces of marigolds.

Evening draws a violet curtain over the rooftops,
the sky a watercolour of lavender and grey,
and neighbours gather on stoops, sharing tea
in chipped mugs, their talk as warm as the hearth inside.

Newington— a tapestry woven of threadbare pavements,
of friendly nods and the steady rhythm of home,
where every cobblestone holds a memory,
and every heart beats in true British pride.