Gavel

The Gavel’s Quiet Would

In the hush of the old courthouse,
the gavel lies in shadow, wood‑brown pew,
its handle, worn by gentle touch,
echoing past tales of law’s firm pew.

Its face, a carved‑out piece of oak,
bear‑called by the noble Clerk of the Bench,
holds the weight of all the colours of further—
claims and pleas alike, a gentle o’er‑reckless march.

When the solicitor’s voice is idle,
the gavel whispers the old word ‘order’.
It splits the air like a soft ticking—
a measured hush that grants the judge its whisper.

For when the gavel falls, it stabs the drumless room,
a bright beat that bites into the deafening debate;
and the hallway leaks its stare, and the wigs tremble—
the world, for a moment, turns to a tempered slate.

The gavel keeps a marinade of promise,
an old boot‑lace of courtroom tradition.
It never offends the unfair brag,
nor the delicate balances of law’s foundation.

So in this brass‑plated, cream‑coloured knuckle,
the squad of beshrew, the custodian of light,
lives the quiet nobility of decency—
a muscled silence that keeps democracy bright.