Gleam

Gleam

In the hush of early dawn, a silver thread
Slips through the mist‑kissed hedgerow, soft and shy,
A quiet promise that the night has shed,
Whilst sleepy fields begin to sigh.

It dances on the dew‑kissed blade of grass,
A fleeting spark that catches every eye,
Like laughter caught within a looking‑glass,
A moment’s shine that makes the world comply.

From river’s ripple to the cathedral’s pane,
The gleam repeats, a steady, gentle beat—
It whispers hope in every waning rain,
And turns the ordinary into sweet.

So let us chase that quiet, steady light,
Not blinding flare, but tender, true delight—
For in its modest glow we find our sight,
And Britain’s heart awakes to morning’s bright.