Poetry

Easy peelers are Not the Only Fruit

Easy peelers are Not the Only Fruit They tell you life’s too short for pith, For skins that cling, or stones that grit, Just tear the tab, dispose the tray, While sunshine’s caught in

Riser

Upon the theatre's aged riser, Where curtains wait to part and sigh, The sun, a quiet riser, climbs higher, Painting the waking world with gold‑spun colour. The actors' breaths, like quiet tide, Collect

Puffy

It’s not the cloud, nor sleep-deprived eye, Nor bread that’s left too long to rise – No, puffy lives where quiet things comply: The teabag’s slow, reluctant sigh As it swells and dunks in

Bring

Bring In the hush of early dawn, the kettle sighs, A plume of steam that brings the day awake— A quiet promise, soft as morning skies, That labour’s hands will bring what hearts partake.

Plume

Plume A single feather drifts on summer’s sigh, Its soft, down‑y plume a quiet, silent flight, A blush of ivory, a hint of sky, That lingers where the meadow meets the light. From

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