Forty

Forty candles flicker, a modest blaze,
On the mantle where the years have lain,
Each flame a whisper of the days
That slipped through fingers like soft rain.

In the garden, roses wear their crown,
Petals blush like tea‑stained lace,
While sparrows chant a quiet tune
From the ivy‑clad garden place.

Forty steps upon the cobbled lane,
Echoes of laughter, soft and low,
Lead past the shop where sweets remain,
And the bakery where scones still glow.

A cup of Earl Grey, steeped just right,
Warms the hands that have learned to wait,
Reflecting on the quiet light
That finds us all before it’s late.

So here’s to forty—neither young nor old,
A steady pulse beneath the sky,
A chapter bound in stories told,
With many more to come, and nigh.