Baton

In the hush before the stadium’s roar,
a slender baton waits, polished steel,
its tip catching the afternoon light
like a promise passed between eager palms.

Relay runners clutch it tight,
feet pounding the cinders in rhythmic stride,
hand‑over‑hand the metal sings,
a fleeting bridge of trust and speed.

In twirling halls, the baton becomes a ribbon,
spinning arcs of colour and grace,
each flick a whispered choreography,
the dancer’s heart echoing its whistle.

On fog‑clad streets, a constable’s grip
firms around the wooden shaft,
a symbol of order, quiet yet firm,
guiding the flow of night’s restless tide.

Whether borne by athlete, artist, or officer,
the baton carries more than weight—
it bears the baton of hope,
passed from one hand to the next,
ever forward, ever bright.