Curve

On the quiet curve of the river, the water sighs, a silver ribbon, soft as a lorry’s tyre on wet pavement, turning the world gently round.

A lover’s smile arches like a bridge, each glance a subtle bend, the curve of a cheek, the sweep of a brow, drawing eyes in a quiet queue.

In the garden, the hedge curls, a green embrace that whispers, while the moon traces a lazy arc over the rooftops of the town.

Even thoughts take their own shape, spiralling inward, then outward, finding peace in the graceful arc of a curve that never ends.