Poetry

JFK

Ode to a Shadowed President In the hush of the Atlantic‑breeze, Where the flutter of his silk‑smoky coat Met London’s fog‑kissed bridges, JFK rode a gilded tide of hope. He spoke in syllables keen as

Soul

Beyond the bone‑bare shell of flesh where pulse and breath run through our veins, there lies a quiet, restless body that Britain’s storm‑choked hills once called its own. It sings in the hush of

Awake

Awake In the quiet hush before dawn’s first light, I sit with mind unbound, a soft vibration, The air cool, the subtle echo of a distant rapture, A world unwrapped in colour, sharp and

Lion

The Lion In crescent light, the savannah stretches wide, a kingdom where the wind turns every blade of grass into a hymn sung in the silence of a primor­nal dawn. The lion – king

Stank

The Stank on the Corner When the rain pours down the city’s pale‑grey streets, a damp hush settles over every false‑wood corner. The black‑clad lorry’s exhaust hisses, giving its domestic catharsis to the air

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