Poetry

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.

The Prestige

The Prestige The night unfurls an ancient stage, where silver‑laced lights swallow fame, and two tall figures, black and white, whisper envy into the night. The first, a gentleman of mystique, expects the crowd

Freak

“A Freak” Under a canvas of violet‑carnival lights, the world hums in a half‑eerie lull; the crowd, a sea of pavement‐dusted faces, queues twisting like cobwebs of a London fog. There, at the edge of

American History X

American History X In a stark, sepulchral light the scene is set, A little square in London’s quiet streets, Yet the film is not of rain or that‑old‑city grey, It bears the scars of

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