Riser

Upon the theatre's aged riser,
Where curtains wait to part and sigh,
The sun, a quiet riser, climbs higher,
Painting the waking world with gold‑spun colour.

The actors' breaths, like quiet tide,
Collect upon the planked ascent,
Each step a promise, dignified,
As night's soft curtain gently bends.

A neighbour's child, eyes wide with wonder,
Watches the riser hold the play,
While morning's light, devoid of blunder,
Turns shadow into bright array.

So let us rise, both stage and soul,
In Britain's calm, enduring role.