Poetry

Wrath

Wrath A storm brews in the breast of stone, Thunder‑clad and clenched in iron‑tone, It gathers like a heavy cloud Above the quiet, cobbled crowd. It rides the wind through alleyways, Where

Flyer

Upon the notice board it lies, A splash of colour, crisp and bright, A flyer whispers of the night, Of jazz, of tea, of Saturday’s surprise. It folds itself in crisp white lines, Inviting passers‑by

Fiend

In the sable night's grim shroud, A fiend stalks the lonely moor, His breath a chill, his eyes like coal, He prowls where wary folk keep their door. With cloven hooves and

Balsa

Balsa whispers through the workshop air, A feather‑soft timber, light as prayer. Its grain, a lattice of honeyed grace, Cradles dreams that dare to take up space. From humble planks it shapes

Grief

In the hush of dawn, a quiet ache settles like mist upon the pane, where laughter once rang bright and clear, now echoes fade to soft refrain. Grief wears a coat of

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