Droop

In the quiet hush of a British summer’s afternoon,
the sun‑kissed heads of the garden’s favourites begin to droop,
their golden crowns bowing low as if in polite apology to the sky.

Petals, soft as a well‑worn tweed jacket, sigh and fold,
each curve a gentle relinquishment to the lingering warmth,
while the stalks, sturdy as a London double‑decker,
yield just enough to let the earth whisper its cool consolation.

A lone sparrow perches on the fence, feathers ruffled by a breezy draft,
watching the blossoms droop with the patient grace of a teatime ritual,
as if the whole garden were sharing a quiet, collective exhale.

Even the old oak, whose roots have gripped the soil for generations,
seems to lean in, its leaves a muted verdant droop,
offering shade to the weary wanderer who pauses beneath its boughs.

In this tender sag, there is no defeat, only a graceful surrender — a reminder that to droop is simply to let the world hold you,
to rest in the quiet beauty of being momentarily low,
before the next sunrise lifts the stems once more.