Gruff

A Gruff Wisp on a London Morn

In the hiss of the fog‑laden streets,
a man of gravel steps into the square;
his voice comes from the gut, not the cuffs,
a rough‑spoken blur of brick and barometer.

His tongue is a clattered papery door,
he snaps at the wind and snaps at ye,
but when a child’s laugh slips through the gloom,
he softens, and the murmurs turn to silences.

No velvet hat, no silver magnifying glass.
His woolly coat hangs from the lofter,
his boots clink through wet cobblestones—
nothing of chic in his worn‑out brass.

He is the river that cuts through greenery,
the wind that rattles the panes at night,
yet beneath that stern, hard‑faced façade lies a heart,
told only in angles of the bowls he keeps warm.

So the next time you hear a gruff reply,
pause beside the yellow taproom,
listen for the eager brasswork,
and you will hear, in that ruff's stead, their own tremble as they silently applaud.