Poetry

Carve

In wood and stone the quiet hand will carve, A whispered story in each grain and groove. With chisel keen, the craftsman's heart does stir, Turning raw timber into forms that live. Each stroke

Joint

On the carvery slab the joint of beef does rest, A marbled canvas, deep and rich in colour, The butcher’s labour yields a tender feast, While rosemary and thyme perfume the air. It is

Smoke

Smoke In the hush of dawn, a thin grey veil rises from the hearth, a quiet breath of burnt pine and distant ember, curling like whispered secrets that slip through the fingers of

Beaut

In a quiet lane where lilacs sigh, A single rose unfolds its hue, Petals blushing soft as sky, A modest bloom, a gentle brew. Its fragrance drifts on evening air, A whispered promise,

Broad

Broad horizons stretch beyond the street, Where fields of green meet the amber wheat, The river sighs, a silver thread, Through valleys wide where footsteps tread. Broad smiles of strangers, warm and kind, In Britain’s

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