Runny

Runny yolk slides slow across the plate,
A golden river on a Sunday brunch.
Runny nose sniffles in the damp December air,
While scarves are wrapped to keep the chill at bay.
Runny Brie, its centre melting soft,
Spread upon crusty toast with a whisper of thyme.
In every drip and slip, a slip‑stream of delight,
Britain’s modest pleasures, humble yet divine.