Voter

In the hush of morning, a voter walks slow,
Past shut‑up cafés and the grey‑stone row,
To the polling station where the queue does form,
A quiet promise against the storm.

With a folded slip, the ballot’s weight is felt,
Each cross a whisper, each mark dealt,
In the scent of ink and the rustle of paper,
Hope folds itself into the caper.

The booth’s small curtain draws a private thread,
Where conscience speaks the words unsaid,
A voice that rises, though low and soft,
In the chorus of the nation aloft.

When the box is sealed and the count begins,
Each voter’s choice a thread that spins,
Through Westminster’s halls, through city and shire,
Shaping the future, lighting the fire.

So here’s to the voter, steady and true,
Who turns a simple mark into a view—
Not just a cross, but a pledge, a creed,
In Britain’s vote, a democratic seed.