Tiger

Stalking through amber grass, the tiger prowls,
A silent flame in twilight’s hush,
His coat a tapestry of midnight gold,
Each stripe a whisper of the jungle’s lore.

Eyes like molten amber, fierce and keen,
Survey the realm where shadows play,
He moves with grace that kings would envy,
A sovereign of the emerald sea.

When thunder rolls and rivers sigh,
He lifts his head to catch the scent,
Of rain‑kissed earth and distant blooms,
A symphony only he can hear.

In quiet moments, ’neath the banyan’s shade,
He rests, a living ember, warm and bright,
Dreaming of ancient trails and moonlit prowls,
Where legend and the wild unite.

So honour, noble beast, your regal tread,
For you are fire, flesh, and fearless art—
The tiger’s heart, a pulse that beats,
Britain’s fierce poetry in the dark.