Froth

Froth crowns the morning cup, a delicate lace,
Silver‑white islands drifting on steaming brew,
Each bubble a sigh, a fleeting, gentle grace,
That lifts the aroma, softens the view.

In the pub’s amber glow, a pint’s proud head,
Froth clings like clouds above a barley sea,
It whispers of hops, of laughter, of threads
That bind the night to camaraderie.

Even the sea, when storms retire,
Leaves froth upon the sand’s quiet sigh,
A lacy fringe where tide and fire
Kiss the shore before they say goodbye.

So froth is more than mere surface show—
It is the breath of joy, the fleeting art,
That tops our drinks, our waves, our afterglow,
And leaves a trace of wonder in the heart.