Uvula

A tiny pendant in the throat’s soft keep,
The uvula dangles, a shy, pink bead,
Guarding the gateway where breaths and words sweep,
A vigilant sentior where food and air are fed.

When laughter bubbles, it quivers and sways,
A wobble of joy in the oral sea,
In song’s bright trill it flickers, displays
A tremor of timbre, sweet as tea.

Should a chill intrude, it swells, a scarlet flag,
Signalling throat’s tender, inflamed plea,
A humble reminder, though oft‑mis‑tagged,
That even the smallest parts hold dignity.

So here’s to the uvula, modest and true,
Britain’s own throat‑jewel, modest yet keen—
A flutter of flesh in the visage of you,
Where breath, voice, and life are ever seen.