Slump

In the hush of a November dusk,
the town slipped gently into a slump—
the factories’ chimneys exhaled thin smoke,
the high street’s shop‑fronts wore a weary lump.

Commuters trudged in sodden coats,
their steps a muted rhythm on the cobbles,
while market stalls, once bright with chatter,
now huddled close, their wares in quiet trobles.

A football match lay postponed, the pitch
a sodden blanket where the ball would not roll,
and the local pub’s low hum grew faint,
as laughter drowned beneath a shallow toll.

Yet even in this lowered tide,
a stubborn spark persisted, faint but true—
the baker’s loaf still rose, the children’s games
found corners where the sun would break through.

For slump is not a final end,
but a bend in the river’s steady flow,
a pause that lets the weary gather strength
before the current finds its zest again.