Shelf

On a quiet wall, a wooden shelf
Holds stories thick as tea‑stained pages,
Its grain recalls the carpenter’s steady hand,
A quiet stage for trinkets and tomes alike.

Morning light slips through the sash,
Polishing the edge with a soft, buttery glow,
While afternoon shadows stretch like lazy cats,
Curling beneath the weight of well‑read spines.

Evening finds the shelf a quiet harbour,
Where mugs of Earl Grey rest beside well‑worn novels,
And the faint scent of old paper mingles
With the lingering perfume of lavender sachets.

In this modest ledge of oak or pine,
Lives gather, pause, and dream—
A simple ledge, yet a world unto itself,
British in its quiet, steadfast charm.