Crisp

Crisp as a winter morning over the Highlands,
the air bites clean, a fresh‑scented sigh.
An apple’s snap, its juice a bright surprise,
each crunch a chorus under grey‑streaked sky.

Bacon sizzles in the pan, a golden crackle,
its fragrance weaving through the kitchen’s hush—
a simple pleasure, humble yet unshackle,
the taste of Britain’s quiet, hearty crush.

So let us cherish every crisp delight,
from frosted fields to breakfast’s humble bite.