The morning arrives like a silver tide,
Where quiet shadows safely hide.
Saturday blooms, a vast gateway,
Where golden hours forever sway.
A kettle gathers its steady glow,
With nowhere urgent left to go.
The porcelain waits in a calm repose,
While the warmth of the kitchen grows.
The air is crisp with a scent of slate,
Outside the latch of the garden gate.
The sky is wide and a pale, clear blue,
With every promise starting anew.
The river follows a winding track,
With never a need for looking back.
The stone is firm and the earth is vast,
Building a strength that is meant to last.