Wrath

Wrath

A storm brews in the breast of stone,
Thunder‑clad and clenched in iron‑tone,
It gathers like a heavy cloud
Above the quiet, cobbled crowd.

It rides the wind through alleyways,
Where lamplight flickers in the haze,
A red‑veined tide that sweeps the square,
Turning laughter into snare.

The bells of Westminster toll low,
Each toll a pulse, each echo slow,
Calling forth the ancient fire
That smoulders ’neath the churchyard spire.

Yet even fury, fierce and stark,
Can soften when it finds a mark—
A gentle hand, a whispered plea,
Can quell the blaze and set it free.

So wrath, though fierce as winter’s gale,
May yield to kindness, lest it prevail
To scorch the heart and mar the day—
A tempest quelled in british grey.