Whose

Whose fingers trace the moon’s soft veil,
Whose sighs become the evening’s sigh,
Whose laughter rolls down cobbled lanes,
Whose tears collect in rain‑kissed gutters.

Whose thoughts are whispered in the fog,
Whose hopes are stitched into the cloth
Of misty moors where heather sighs,
Whose dreams take root in ancient oak.

Whose love is quiet as a tide,
Whose anger burns like peat‑fire bright,
Whose name is etched on stone and shore,
Whose story lives in every “whose”.