Thick

Thick

In the rain‑slick streets where London’s mists begin
The air grows thick, a damp so fine it clings,
And every breath tastes of old brick and peat,
A liquid curtain, swelling like a crowd that freezes.

The kettle hums above the waiting queue,
A steaming mug of tea, its steam a woolly plume—
Thick‑faced clouds hang above the canal,
Never drifting, never emptying, full of gloom or bloom.

On quiet nights, the words you speak are thick,
Tone weighted with a gravity of humour,
Like a traveller’s coat when the Thames is slick—
Robust, dependable, pulsing with subtle power.

Even the soil in the garden feels that way, too:
A patch of brown, thick and loamy, home to tiny roots,
Where wild thistles stand, a defiant, dense crest,
And every branch, every leaf, brims with secret fête.

So embrace the thick, this stillness, this weight,
For in its depth we find the rhythm of our creed—
A robin’s song, a kettle’s hiss, a lover’s graffiti,
All thick with meaning, in this green‑charred, waking dream.