Growl

In the dim back‑alley of the city,
a low growl rumbles from the throat of night,
a sound that rolls like distant thunder
over wet pavement and the hiss of a lorry’s brakes.

It is the beast’s quiet protest,
the stray cat’s warning as it pads
along the cracked garden wall,
its fur bristling, eyes narrowed to slits.

Even the old pub’s sign seems to shudder,
its wooden letters trembling at the vibration,
as if the very bricks remember
the growl of a forgotten engine,
the growl of a lover’s sigh,
the growl of a heart that refuses to be tamed.

So listen, when the wind drops and the streetlamps flicker,
for in that husky murmur lies a story — raw, unpolished,
unmistakably British in its grit and grace.