Aisle

In the hushed nave of the old stone church,
An aisle runs soft beneath the choir’s hymn,
Flagstones worn by centuries of tread,
Where whispered prayers and silent vows descend.

Beyond the nave, the market’s bustling lane,
A trolley glides past shelves of tinned soup,
Children’s laughter bubbles like a kettle,
While shoppers queue for the weekly coop.

In the theatre’s dim, plush‑lined corridor,
Seats flank the aisle where footsteps echo low,
Ushers with torches guide the late‑arriving,
Curtains rise, and dreams begin to glow.

Whether sacred stone, or shop, or stage,
The aisle is Britain’s quiet thoroughfare—
A passage lined with memory and hope,
Where every step finds purpose, prayer, and care.