Sober

Sober

In the hush of early dawn, when the pub’s last glasses clink,
I walk the cobbled lane, my thoughts as clear as winter ink.
No amber haze to blur the edge of fog that clings to stone,
Just the steady tread of shoes upon a path I’ve known.

The world feels sharper—each brick a story, each lamp a quiet guide,
The river’s murmur sings a sober lullaby beside.
I notice how the chestnut leaves, in their muted rust,
Whisper of evenings spent in laughter, not in lust.

Sober is not merely the absence of a glass,
But the presence of a mind that learns to see, to pass
Through moments unadorned, yet rich with honest hue—
A sober heart beats true, in colours old and new.

So I raise a cup of tea, steam curling like a thought,
And toast the quiet strength that sober days have brought.
In Britain’s misty morn, where rain may softly fall,
I find my courage clear—sober, and standing tall.