Beneath the streetlamps’ patient glow,
I walk where shadows gather slow.
The town still hums, its heart at rest,
Yet I must guard at law’s behest.

For every call, each watchful round,
I tread on unconsecrated ground.
Not temples high, nor mead-hall’s floors,
But tarmacked lanes and darkened moors.

Still, Justice speaks in ancient breath,
From ages carved in runes of death.
Tīw, whose hand upheld the scale,
Whose honour stood when courage failed.

He binds my oath as once he bound
The wolf with faith, though fate unwound.
His gift was truth, his pledge was clear:
To face the dark and master fear.

So I, in steel and woven thread,
Bear shield unseen against faceless dread.
Each siren’s wail, each whispered plea,
A vow renewed to guard the free.

I do not judge, I do not reign,
But walk the line ‘twixt peace and pain.
Through weary nights, through dawn’s first flame,
I serve the law in Tīw’s great name.