Logan

On the green of the lane where the old hedgerows stand,
Lives a young lad named Logan, with a heart so grand.
He strolls beneath the oaks, where leeks grow in the brook,
And whistles to the crickets, in his own quiet nook.

His adventures are whispered in the tea‑shop’s glow,
Where he sips his cuppa, and the clocks all agree,
That time’s no obstacle, but a gentle friend,
And his dreams roll as softly as the evening wind.

With a ping‑pong set and a rusty bicycle,
Logan’s laughter rings out, the neighbourhood's recital.
The street‑lamps flicker like fireflies in autumn’s breath,
While his icons—planks and puddles—chart a youthful quest.

He collects stardust in his willow‑shaped pocket,
And spreads it like mist across the moon‑lit dock.
Towards the world’s great mystery, he swaggerstrokes,
In the rhythm of the Thames, his spirit awoke.

And when twilight drapes the countryside in shadows,
Logan surrenders to the quiet, the world’s slow stipulations.
Still, his soul clings to stars, in an unshaken hoist:
For he knows, as poets say, that “hope is never lost, it’s just a voice.”