Poetry

Fiery

Fiery In the quiet glow of the night‑time hearth, a spark – a flick – a wild flash of colour breaks the hush, and the air tastes of cinnamon. It breathes, a

Inglourious Basterds

Mid‑night in the shadows of the Vichy‑era town, Where cobblestones whisper secrets in the hushed, pale glow, A rag‑tag band marches, their boots echo loud, Ink‑scarred heroes, the daring Inglourious Basterds. They stitch their

Aliens

Beyond Aether In the hush of the night‑sky, a wanderer glides, Past the crescent hiss of the old Compton rig – A plume of silver, not formed in our tides, Travels when the Thames

Racer

On the saw‑dusted track of Donington, the racer’s silhouette cuts the dawn with a hairline of paint on a slick of chrome, each tyre whispering a promise of lightning. He grips the wheel like

Amadeus

Amadeus In the quiet of the Hall of the Archive, the notes of Mozart rise like amber light, each phrase a plea, each chord a quiet shrine, the genius of the eighteenth‑century night. A boy

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