Poetry

The Lion King

In the golden hush of the Serengeti’s sweep, where the veldt sighs beneath a blaze of noon, a drumbeat rises—an ancestral heartbeat, the wind‑woven song of a lion’s boon. Simba, once a

Cruel

cruel In the grey hush of a London morning the rain boils the street‑lamps and drips into the boots of strangers who hurry past without a glance. The wind is cruel, it steals

Whiplash

Whiplash It came at the bite of a turn, a sudden lift of a U‑turn out of the heat‑spun lane of Bloomsbury, a pulse‑crack through chrome and glass, the shuffle of furs in

The Departed

The Departed In the damp hush of a June dawn, when the fog still shrouds the lane, the queue of the funeral carrows up, a quiet line of soul‑laden grain. Cars pull up,

Dusky

Dusky In the lane where the flick‑rising lamps loose a amber dust on cobbled stone, the day folds itself in that soft, mellow dusk, a dusky hush that drapes the sky’s own bones.

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