Poetry

Hovel

In the quiet hush of a cobble‑strewn lane A humble hovel stands, weathered but true, Its roof, a patchwork of blue‑tinted slate, And the wind, it whistles what it will through the woodwork. Within

Colic

The Quiet Storm There is a thing, a quiet thunder that swallows sleep A little body, shivering on a sofa’s edge, A gasp of air that turns to ache, a desperate weeping, A soft-breath

Hovel

In the hush of the vale’s faded light, A humble hovel clings to the hill, Its thatched roof sighs with the wind’s soft spite, While ivy weaves a quiet thrall. Through cracked

Always keep away from children

Always Keep Away From Children Handle with care, the elders say— Some dreams are sharp, some words can fray. A spark of thought, a restless flame, Not every fire should feed a game. For children

Plead

In the hushed courtroom where the oak beams sigh, A voice shall plead, a low, beseeching cry. With trembling hands upon the worn‑worn rail, The defendant leans, his hope a fragile veil.

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