Poetry

Singin' in the Rain

Singin’ in the Rain In the first cry of the afternoons, the streets of London glimmer, black‑top cobbles bubbling beneath the mist, the drizzle a silver frame. A gentle hush swells around the

Shoal

The Quiet Shoal In the low‑light hush of a moon‑kissed cove, A shoal lies ballast, shyless, still— A mass of silvery figures, veined, they'd rove, Panoramic though they clutch the sea so still. The waves

It's a Wonderful Life

It’s a Wonderful Life The kettle whistles its morning sigh, a faint steam‑cloud unfurled over the kitchen table, and in that quiet, the world holds its breath for a cup of tea and the

Hasty

The Hasty Clock In the early, blush‑gold hour of the train station, a figure darts, a wheeze through the queue, her perfume a rogue bloom in a corridor full of clipboard‑tucked commuters. She hurries,

Rosemary's Baby

In the dimming light of a London afternoon, Rosemary cradles her child, a fragile dawn, Her once-bright hair now veiled in violet doom, A whispered promise of silence in every drawn ring. The air

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