Plead

To Plead

In the dim glow of a London street‑lamp,
I stand and utter a quiet, earnest plea,
A soul uncut, a heart that knows no dam‑t.
The night, a silvery mirror to my glee,
And yet, beneath the flicker of neon’s glare,
A soft‑spoken lament rises through the air—
The old‑fashioned habit of the humbly bold,
To plead, to ask, to claim the rights of old.

I turn to law, with arguments in hand,
And seek the counsel of a seasoned solicitor,
Their voice a calm that steadies my quick‑silver stand,
While we rehearse the plea we’ll present to the magistrate’s solicitor.
The court will listen o’er a paper’s quiet rustle,
“Your Honour”, a hush, the gavel’s gentle thud,
“From a life before and the future we’ll wrestle,
Curse our ignorance, we plead for a betterhood.”

On the back of a tram, a stranger slips the hand a note,
If one can scarce beat the bustle or heartbreaking globe.
The pen – the client's own, the clue of such plea-point —
A careful line that demands a gentle trove of soap.
It bears the weight of two hearts’ shared desire,
The lilt of a lover's under‑jaw draped in the night’s mue.

And should the winter wind bring down the city’s cheer,
The plea will stand in years of war, hope, of sorrow.
You can wipe the trembling as the plume draws on the air,
Bear the flicker of hope that life retreats from Anglo‑tonial sparrows.
So we speak a word that makes a difference in the world’s least very small corner,
Simply “plead”.