Trait

Trait

A quiet seed in mind, it grows—
A habit, bent, or favoured pose,
Whether it be the patient tread
Of one who waits in every queue,
Or sudden spark that lights the night,
A flicker of courage, soft or bright.

It colours laughter, shapes the tear,
The stubborn knot we draw too near,
The gentle sway of humble grace,
The restless pulse that won’t stay still.

In every soul a trait resides,
A map of where the spirit bides—
Not fixed, not flawless, but a thread
That weaves the story of us,
And tells, in quiet British tone,
Who we are when we’re alone.