Amend

Amend

In quiet rooms where ink still bleeds, We trace the seams of thought and deed, A gentle hand, a measured sway, To soften edges, set aright.

The draft, a garden, wild and bright, Needs pruning here, a blossom there, We snip the thorns, we sow the rue, Till every line breathes truer air.

Not erasing what was sown, But shaping what the soul has known— A chorus soft, a revised refrain, Where wisdom wears a modest stain.

So let us amend with careful grace, In Britain’s quiet, thoughtful space, For growth resides not in the new, But in the love we renew.