Poetry

March

March tiptoes in on a chill wind’s sigh, Grey clouds unfold like tired parchment, While daffodils thrust their golden heads Through frost‑bitten earth, reluctant to yield. The days grow longer, a hesitant

Belie

Belie In the hush of twilight, a smile belies the storm, A quiet laugh that masks a furrowed brow, The rose’s blush belies its thorns, warm, Yet truth, like fog, will somehow

Slate

On the quiet hill where old roofs sigh, A slab of slate lies low beneath the sky. Grey as a winter’s breath, its surface cool, A canvas kissed by rain, a mason’s tool.

Tepid

In the kitchen’s quiet hour, the kettle sighs a tepid hum, its steam a shy, reluctant plume that drifts across the chilly floor. A cup of tea, half‑warmed, half‑cool, holds the colour of

Prime

In the quiet hush of number’s line, Prime stands tall, a solitary sign— A lone integer, indivisible, pure, Its only friends are one and itself, for sure. From two’s first whisper to

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