Strip

A slender strip of linen, white as winter’s dawn,
Unfurling slow across the loft’s exposed floorboards,
It catches the weak sun, a quiet, trembling braid
That maps the grain of timber, whispers of old seams.

In the newsagents’ window, a comic strip lies bright,
Panels of laughter etched in ink, a weekend’s treat—
Each bubble a breath, each line a rueful sigh,
Turning the mundane into a strip of cheer.

And when the night drapes its velvet over Soho’s streets,
A lone performer steps beneath the neon’s flicker,
She sheds the day with graceful, deliberate art,
A living strip of motion, heart laid bare.

Thus the world is stitched together—by cloth, by paper, by flesh—
Each humble strip a thread that binds,
A quiet reminder that even the thinnest lengths
Can hold the whole of wonder, taut and true.