Poetry

Surge

Surge – the word that whistles through the air, A rolling, crawling pulse that rides the tide. On Thames‑bank nights the water swells, a tide‑swept sigh, Turning quiet harbour reeds into canvases of

White Heat

White Heat The dawn is a smear of grey, the Thames a soot‑lined scrawl, yet somewhere beyond the cobbles, a furnace sighs and swallows the pall. Its iron heart convulses, a living coal‑sky, spreading

Vegan

The Veggie‑Flavour of a London Evening In a cosy flat on Notting Hill, the kettle whistles, and the tea‑break spills a lattice of steam over plates. The kitchen’s chalk‑white, the pan’s humming a quiet

Inherit the Wind

Inherit the Wind In a small county square where echoes die, the world hung‑tight between a preacher’s open hymn and a scar‑lined hand that urged: “We study a theorem!” A great humid dawn was

Scene

A Scene in Many Hats In the hush of a cobbled lane, the cobblestones still whisper with the rattle of lorry wheels and tea‑time chatter; the early-morning mist unfurls a soft, diffuse veil, and

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