Weigh

On the Old Measure

In the quiet cellar of a London house, an iron balance sighs beneath the floor. The brass arms swing, the ears of stone swing out like stiff‑necked, honest ghosts.

They say the world is measured in the weight of bread, of silver, of fleeting thought. And I, a laugh‑toss of a mind, stand by re‑weighting what the heart has wrought.

You can find a weigh‑bridge at the port of Dover, where ships are checked by the low‑light beam. The guard at the gate says, “Put that grub on the rail; the numbers will shout, they’ll know your steam.”

Yet the great weighing that keeps my nights in order is not the count of pounds or glycinate, but the slow, steady balance of love and ambition, of duty and delight.

I have the haughty pride of a man who owns a pawn, who holds in a hand the old out‑of‑date gem — “…the proper balance...” he’d say with a grin, and flick an old coin to a clatter of humor and because.

Yet when I gather the scale for the day’s race, the world glints in the silver clasp: “You weigh more than weight if you weigh what you’re truly made of.”
So in a minor hour my I muse: the text and good ——that mete out cool, clean, measured clarity and stay, going by a mindful, finite volume.

Admittedly, I'm after the haun-: The quick walk through a market, the close of nature's light, the full The weight of the skies as hammered; in minute redeem.

I grin again by being plaque, great-than, high smiley, and the run‑away call for treatment:
only count that deep, such as a tiny blue loa: own in trimmed will turn and forth.

So let me finish, as in a lull, the old evidence that weigh is cool, and quite simple.

When the floor does not have sense as a wind: weigh hooks, good work time!