First

First

In the hush before sunrise,
a lone footfall meets the dew‑slick pavement,
the world tilting on the edge of night –
the first breath of day, crisp as fresh‑baked scone.

A child’s tentative grip on a rust‑red bicycle,
wobbly wheels singing a tentative tune,
the streetlamp’s amber wink urging courage on,
while neighbours peek from behind curtained windows.

The first note of a violin, trembling yet true,
floats over the garden where roses blush pink,
each petal unfolding like a shy confession,
the scent of earth and rain mingling in the air.

In the kitchen, the kettle sings its first whistle,
steam curling like a question mark above the stove,
tea leaves swirl in porcelain, a promise of calm,
while the clock’s hands inch forward, steady and kind.

Love’s first glance across a crowded platform,
eyes locking like two trains on parallel tracks,
a smile blooms, tentative as a spring bud,
the platform humming with the murmur of departures.

And when the day yields to twilight’s soft sigh,
the first star pricks the indigo veil above,
whispering that every ending holds a new beginning,
and that every “first” is a thread in life’s tapestry.