To Kill a Mockingbird

In the dust‑shrouded streets of Maycomb’s slow summer,
A boy‑handed line of thought, ten‑plus‑two‑year‑old,
Walks with Harper Finch, with courage tucked in his blazer,
Through a world where justice lies stretched out like a mold.

The mocking‑bird sings—a soft, innocent tune,
Its voice caught in the silence of grown‑up fears.
A child peers at themes where truth is the rune,
And sees how prejudice trembles on thirsty tears.

Little Mayella, the black‑eyed twins in a grey veil,
Carry the question of what one should truly hear,
In a town where the law and the decential tale
Mingle with context, misled by the weight of a fear.

Atticus, with his measured, steadfast gaze,
Stands in the courtroom of inequity’s night,
Says, “Let the world see the colour of what sets it ablaze,”
Defending standing for right with steady might.

While Scout, the eldest forging her own map,
Learns that the robin remains patient and free,
In a judge’s world where she knows the hardest trap—
The whisper that wrongness must not drift on the sea.

So the verse counts each footfall, thumps the heart,
With the pulse of a sermon about learning to hear.
Maycomb remembers the sound of a mocking‑bird’s art,
And remembers the truth that aims to bring us near.