Stand by Me

Stand By Me

In the mist of the Thames‑side dawn,
I stand with a lad in his coat of worn‑out grey,
The city wakes slow, its streets “queue‑fast” along,
Yet our rhythm is quiet, a quiet, steady sway.

Stand by me—the refrain of an old London heart,
Where the pub smells of after‑hours ale and rain,
Footsteps echo, a gentle folk‑song from the start,
And the night promises a page we borrow from pain.

Each bruise you bear is a road‑mould of memory,
Like the cobbles on the South Bank that hold our past.
A flicker of phone‑lit faces in dissonant symphony,
Carry the weight of a nation that hopes it can last.

“You’ll feel the colour of courage, inside your chest”—
Got a thought, sweet, that it’ll all be fine.
Narrow lanes, but we rise, on the Lorry‑town crest,
Painting each line on the skyline—our towers align.

What counsellors say? With a lift, with a hint,
The “spanner” of life, chiseled in concrete,
The “spirit” that impermeable minds print,
Across the pavement.

We dream under the same banner—a batch of gas‑lit bards—
To see the world quieted in its timeless art,
And if sunrise brings order, let that mark start that,

Forever have I told this whispered tale:

“Stand by me, through fog, rain or hail,
let savour of common courtesy unfurl.
Every heartbeat we just sail,
and the world for a child is the pearl.”