Poetry

Shill

In the bustling high street’s humming queue, A voice rings out, bright and slick, A shill with a grin that’s ever‑true, Selling dreams with a practised trick. He whispers of bargains, rare

Diver

Beneath the sky‑kissed tide, the diver slips, A quiet silhouette against the blue, With fins that whisper like the sea‑foam’s tips, He glides where sun‑lit shafts of water brew. His breath—a steady

Churn

In the quiet dairy of the village green, A wooden churn sits, its oak worn smooth, Waiting for the milk to thicken, to be seen Turning slow as thoughts in a wistful youth.

Model Railways

On a shelf of pine and gentle light, A miniature world takes shape each night— Where tin‑plate rails hum in steady beat, And tiny locomotives find their street. Points swing open like

Booth

In the rain‑slicked corner of the high street, A red telephone booth stands, stoic and neat, Its glass panes misted with breath of the past, Where whispers of love and farewells have lasted.

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