Navel

In the quiet centre of our belly’s curve,
A tiny hollow where the umbilical thread once served,
Now a secret dimple, soft and warm,
A quiet reminder of the life that once was born.

It holds the echo of a first heartbeat,
A silent map of where we began, complete.
When fingers trace its shallow, round retreat,
We feel the pulse of beginnings, soft and sweet.

Some see a navel as mere scar, a mark,
Yet it is a portal to the dark,
Where mother’s nourishment once did flow,
Now a modest crater where gentle thoughts grow.

In summer’s heat, when shirts are thin and light,
It catches sunlight, a modest, private bright.
In winter’s chill, beneath wool’s cosy fold,
It hides away, a story quietly told.

So celebrate this humble, humble knot,
The navel — our first link, the life we’ve got.
A British rose of flesh, a quiet art,
The centre of us, beating in the heart.