Plank

A weathered plank lies upon the shore,
its grain a map of time’s own lore.
Once part of a ship that cut the spray,
now it dreams of tides that fade away.

In children’s hands it becomes a bridge,
spanning puddles after rain’s brief pledge.
They balance, they wobble, they laugh and tease,
while the plank holds steady beneath their knees.

Carpenters whisper to its silent face,
measure twice, cut once, a steady pace.
With nail and saw they give it new purpose—
a shelf for books, a frame, a surface.

Even in fire’s hungry glow,
it surrenders warmth, a soft, amber flow.
Ashes rise like memories thin,
yet the spirit of the plank lives within.

So raise a cup to this humble stave,
solid, dependable, brave.
In every crack and every knot,
a story of Britain’s timber is wrought.