Thanksgiving

In the quiet glow of autumn’s amber light,
we gather on a day that’s not our own,
but a feast we share with friends from far‑off,
where gratitude takes centre stage.

A golden bird, its skin crisp and warm,
basks in the blush of a pale summer sky,
while corn’s husk crinkles like the sigh of trees,
and pies, bright and fragrant, line the table’s arm.

We pass the sauce, the cranberry, the mash,
each spoonful a memory, each bite a gift,
and we laugh about the mishaps of the day—
when pots fell, or a child misplaced a whisk.

Across the table, stories rise and tumble,
from veteran tales of snowy hearth‑fires
to the quiet musings of the young about yet‑to‑be;
there’s a sense of calm between the clinks and clatter.

Outside, a gentle drizzle settles over the lanes,
and the air carries the scent of roasting and hearth;
the world seems softer, a little more orderly,
like a well‑chewed sentence, politely spaced with a comma.

With a simple “thank you,” we anchor our hearts,
remembering the long legacy of the harvest.
In that moment, though we’re strangers in miles,
we share a unique connection, under one sky—
a moment of British‑spelt holiday, where together we say:

“Thank you, dear friends, for sharing this feast;
for the laughter, the stories, and the simple grace—
for every colour of memory we’ll keep, barely able to hold it all.
And in that moment, we find a small miracle—a holiday salute, a quiet toast for the future.”