Karma

Karma turns the quiet wheel of deeds,
A soft echo in the marrow of each day,
What we sow in thought, in word, in gentle creed,
Returns to us like rain on Lancashire clay.

It does not shout with trumpets bright,
But whispers in the rustle of autumn leaves,
In the queue at the bus stop, in the candle‑light,
In the smile shared with a stranger who believes.

When we lend a hand, when we hold our tongue,
When we choose kindness over hurried spite,
The scales, unseen, begin to hum,
Balancing ledgers in the hush of night.

Yet should we sow thorns of spite or greed,
The same quiet wind will bring them back,
Not as vengeance, but as seed indeed,
A lesson wrapped in sorrow’s sack.

So walk the pavement with mindful tread,
Remember that every act, however small,
Is a thread in the tapestry we spread,
And the pattern we weave will one day call
Us home to the truth we gave away—
What goes around, comes round in British grey.