Strut

The Strut

In the quiet heart of a bridge, where steel meets stone,
there is a silent column, a straight‑angled bone.

It carries the weight of a thousand feet‑high skylines,
a steadfast strut that speaks in unbroken lines.
Its jointless beam, a steel‑arched paedophile of the night,
holds the London skyline in a quiet, gruelling fight.

Of a different sort—an ostrich's daring walk,
the bare‑legged bird that drags its beak across the chalk.

Such a strut is a rhythm, a pace in wood and feather,
an elegant parade that makes the cursive sky beaver.
No clacking clunk of tread, no drum of fear,
just the simple swagger that draws an eye right near.

In a man's swagger, the lip rolled in a grin,
the colour of confidence in a group of crowds that spin.

He walks into the room as if he's on a stage,
his feet a measured beat, his gaze a calm wage.
A solitary strut like a lorry on a moor,
where power grows from the sentence of his floor.

And then the truth in the quiet posture of a child—
a slouchless spine in every lesson of a play‑bulldog's wild.

The strut is a muscle imagined as a "Dash" in the thrall,
a simple line of force that holds up we all -and all.

So in wind or stone or human stride, this single word,
be it iron, feather, or swagger, bears all it hurt.
It whispers without a voice that nothing truly ends—
as long as there are small beams holding up the bends.