Ruler

Upon the oaken desk, the ruler lies,
A slender strip of boxwood, marked in centimetres,
Its edge a quiet judge of length and truth,
Each line a silent pledge to measure.

When hands of artisans grasp its firm span,
They trace the outlines of dreams yet unseen,
From timber’s grain to fabric’s delicate seam,
The ruler whispers, “Here is where you begin.”

In halls of power, a sceptre bears the name,
A crown of gold, a voice that guides the realm,
Yet even monarchs bow to its plain steel,
For law, like measure, demands a steady hand.

So whether wielded by craftsman or king,
The ruler stands—unflinching, plain, and true—
A British standard, etched in metre’s grace,
Reminding all that truth lies in the line.