Guard

They stand so still in scarlet gleam,
Bearskin tall, a rigid dream.
Eyes fixed front, a stoic line,
While tourists snap and phones align.

No word they speak, no glance they trade,
Yet in that stillness, pride is made.
A tiny twitch, a feathered sway,
Betrays the humanneath the array.

The changing hour, a slow ballet,
Of polished boots and grey-browed day.
A silent favour, keen and neat,
Where duty wears its Sunday sweet.
Not just a bobby, stiff and stark,
But London’s heartbeat, in the park.
Guarding colour, crown, and dream,
While London wakes to Friday’s gleam.