Among

Among

In the murmur of a morning tea,
where kettle spills its steam to the left and right,
among is the quiet underspace that holds the cup,
the saucer, the universe of sugar sachets.

It is the air that circulates between the slippers
and the low‑rising London traffic,
the unseen weft in the hum of a train’s iron heart.

In the choir loft of St. Paul’s, between the teak benches,
among clutches the hymn‑books, the echoes of the Bishop’s pipe.
It is the breath made there before the first note swells—
a gentle, invisible library of sound.

We learn that we are among things, not with them,
a difference that changes wrist‑watch numbers to weather:
among the adverts on a tube stop, the diesel sighs
and the sea‑blue recall of a child’s first crossing.

So let us linger there, in that gentle sphere,
where edges blur, and focus narrows to the shared sense of being.
Because in that slender, thinning space—
among—we are the very breath that binds the days.