Plead

In the hushed courtroom where the oak beams sigh,
A voice shall plead, a low, beseeching cry.
With trembling hands upon the worn‑worn rail,
The defendant leans, his hope a fragile veil.

He pleads for mercy, not with bitter spite,
But humbly, as a child seeks morning light.
Each syllable a soft‑spun thread of grace,
That weaves through judge’s stare and barrister’s face.

Outside, the city hums—a double‑decker lorry trundles down the wet pavement,
A postbox gleams beneath a grey‑spun firmament,
While children trade their biscuits for a laugh,
And mothers clutch their torches when night turns staid.

Yet here, within these walls of stern decorum,
The plea rises like incense in a quiet forum:
“Please, good sir, consider all I’ve done,
The labour loved, the colours I have spun.”

The judge, austere yet touched by honest tone,
Pauses, then speaks, his judgement softly known:
“Your plea is heard, though faults remain,
I temper justice with a grain of rain.”

Thus in this chamber where law and feeling meet,
A humble plead can turn defeat to sweet.
For mercy, like a gentle British drizzle,
Can soften stone and make the hardest heart whistle.