Crest

Upon the swell of azure tide,
the wave’s soft crest, a frothy crown,
it lifts and sighs, then gently slides,
in silver lace it wears renown.

A hill’s broad back, where heather sighs,
its grass‑kissed crest embraces sky,
the wandering wind, with whispered lies,
paints amber hues as clouds drift by.

In herald’s shield, a lion’s pride,
its mane a crest of gold and flame,
each thread a tale, each stripe a tide,
that bears the name of ancient fame.

And feathered folk, with regal poise,
display a crest of vivid hue,
a flash of colour, bright as choice,
that crowns the sky in morning’s dew.

So whether sea, or stone, or wing,
the crest stands tall— a fleeting throne— where nature’s art and memories sing,
and every heart can call it home.