Shove

Shove

In the rush‑hour tube, a stranger’s elbow gives a soft shove,
A brief, polite nudge that says, “Make room, please.”
On the pavement, a child’s pram receives a careful shove from mum,
Guiding tiny wheels past the bustling queue of commuters.

At the market stall, the vendor shoves a crate of apples toward the counter,
The wood creaking under the weight of crisp, rosy fruit.
A footballer, lungs burning, shoves the ball past a defender’s outstretched leg,
Sending it spinning toward the waiting net, a flash of leather and hope.

Even in quiet rooms, ideas sometimes need a shove—
A thought nudged from the edge of consciousness into the light of speech,
Where it lands, tentative, then grows,
Like a seed pushed gently into the soil of conversation.

So let us remember that a shove, whether firm or faint,
Is not merely force but a bridge—
A British‑spelled invitation to move forward,
Together, one polite push at a time.