Poetry

Sling

In the garden’s quiet hush, a child swings A humble sling of woven twine, Its leather pouch a cradle for smooth stone, Whispering promises of flight and aim. The elastic sings—a taut,

She Never Did Care for Hollyhocks

She never did care for hollyhocks, those stately spires that thrust their speckled faces toward the summer sky, preferring instead the modest blush of shy violets, the quiet murmur of clover beneath her

Toddy

In the hush of a winter evening, a toddy steams beside the hearth, its amber glow a quiet mirth, warming fingers, chasing dread. A splash of whisky, smooth and bold, a spoon of

Swami

In quiet ashrams where incense curls, A swami glides like twilight’s pearl. His robe, a saffron‑tinted hue, Whispers of ancient truths anew. With eyes that hold the moon’s soft gaze, He teaches stillness

Aldershot Town

Aldershot Town, where history marches on, From barracks’ brick to the hum of the town, Stone‑cobbled memories of soldiers’ stride, Echoes of bugles where pride won’t subside. The heath lies quiet beneath

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