Watford

Watford hums beneath a pallid sky,
Where Colne's soft waters kiss the town's old feet,
The high street thrives with shops where passersby
Exchange a smile, a cup of tea, a treat.
Red brick terraces stand in quiet rows,
Their windows catching light like faded gold,
While Vicarage Road erupts with roars and woes,
As Hornets chase a dream both brave and bold.
The market's chatter weaves a lively thread,
Of spices, fabrics, stories old and new,
And evening finds the pubs where laughter's fed,
With ale that warms the cheeks of neighbours true.
Yet still the railway sings its steady tune,
Carrying hopes to London's bright horizon.