Poetry

Snore

The Night‑time Serenade In the hush of midnight’s soft embrace, A low, rumbling timbre starts to trace, Like distant thunder on a summer’s night, A snore that paints the dark with gentle

Clump

Clump In the meadow’s hush a quiet clump lies low, A mound of emerald blades that cling together, Each stalk a whispered secret, soft and slow, Binding the earth in humble, verdant tether.

Weave

In the quiet workshop where the loom stands still, a weaver's hands begin to dance and spin, pulling warp and weft through timbered grain, each thread a hue of earth or sky's own

Stand

Stand In the quiet hush of dawn, a lone oak stands, its gnarled limbs outstretched like old friends greeting the light, leaves whispering secrets to the wind that drifts over the meadow.

Toady

Ode to a Toady In the tea‑room’s hushed politeness, He slides in with a obsequious grin, A fawning shadow of the boss, His honour measured in biscuits thin. He ladles praise like thickened

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