Tinge

A whisper of hue, a soft tinge in the air,
Like dawn’s first blush on a winter’s morning, pale and fair.
It lingers on petals, a faint rose‑kissed sigh,
A muted caress where the shadows lie.

In tea‑stained cups, the amber tinge swirls slow,
Recalling hearth‑side chats where old stories glow.
The city’s brickwork wears a soot‑kissed tinge,
A quiet reminder of time’s gentle hinge.

So let us notice the subtle tinge,
The quiet colour that makes life’s fringe
Shimmer with depth, though never loud—
A tender shade in the British crowd.