Poetry

The Usual Suspects

In the hushed hush of an empty avenue, Where lamps flicker like tired heartbeats, The city keeps its ache on the back of the night, And whispers ask, “Who’s the usual suspect?” They are

Cliff

The Cliff On the salt‑soaked coast the cliff stands, a granite sentinel, Its weathered face a map of weathered clues worn by the wind. Above, gulls wheel in endless loops, where sky meets

Rear Window

Rear Window In the dim glow of a Birmingham evening, I sit behind a cracked pane, a private screen. The city spills its neon lights, The world a tapestry of private scenes. Through the dusty

Baron

The Baron of Ashcombe Hall In the hollow where the old stone walls keep the dawn’s first sigh, the baron sat upon his plinth, a glass of port and a sigh for

Alien

In a quiet corner of a restless night, a visitor lands, a glinting star form— his tongue is not a whine of fright but a song, and his eyes, blue mirrors of a

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