Balsa

Balsa whispers through the workshop air,
A feather‑soft timber, light as prayer.
Its grain, a lattice of honeyed grace,
Cradles dreams that dare to take up space.

From humble planks it shapes the wing,
Where model pilots learn to sing.
In towers tall or bridges thin,
It buoys the hope that ventures in.

So raise a toast to balsa’s art—
British heart, yet worldwide part—
A humble wood that, weightless, bears
The loftiest hopes of daring fliers.