Tepid

In the kitchen’s quiet hour,
the kettle sighs a tepid hum,
its steam a shy, reluctant plume
that drifts across the chilly floor.

A cup of tea, half‑warmed, half‑cool,
holds the colour of dawn’s first blush—
not bold enough to stir the blood,
yet soft enough to soothe the thought.

Outside, the pavement glistens, wet
from yesterday’s lingering drizzle,
and buses crawl like patient oxen,
their engines murmuring a tepid refrain.

We linger in this lukewarm pause,
where neither fire nor ice prevails,
finding comfort in the middle ground—
a gentle, British sort of grace.