Impel

Impel — A quiet force that nudges the night,
A whisper in the marrow of the bone,
It turns the restless tide of thought to light,
And lifts the weary heart from stone to stone.

It is the spur that drives the lorry’s roll,
The urge that makes the runner’s breath align,
The steady hand that steadies the fragile soul
When doubts would pull the wandering line.

In crowded streets of London’s grey embrace,
In quiet gardens where the roses sigh,
Impel paints purpose on each fleeting face,
And turns mere motion into destiny’s sky.

So let us heed that gentle, constant call,
Let every step be shaped by its soft thrall — For to be impelled is to be alive,
To move, to strive, to hope, and to strive.