Poetry

Madly

Madly we chase the sunrise, With hearts that beat like drumming rain, In streets of London's grey, Where thoughts collide like trains. We laugh, we weep, we dance insane, Our laughter rings like

Trail

On the quiet edge of the wood, a narrow trail winds through amber leaves, soft underfoot as the morning mist lingers like a sigh over the ferns. It threads between ancient oaks, their

Toast

Golden slices greet the morning light, Crisp and warm, a humble delight. Slathered in butter, jam, or marmalade, A simple toast, the day’s first parade. From the toaster’s gentle sigh to the

Prose

In the hush of dawn, prose unfolds, A steady river, broad and gold, No strict metre binds its flow, Yet carries dreams the heart must know. It labours not in verse’s tight

Fancy

She wore her fancy in her thoughts, not lace, A tea-stained reverie, a quiet grace. While others chased the shiny, new, and bright, She found her joy in soft, diffused light. No

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