Poetry

Rerun

Rerun On the flickering screen the same scene sighs, A familiar chorus in muted tones— Lines we once laughed at, now stale as old pies, Repeating the jokes that we’ve already known.

Widen

Widen the road that winds through misty hills, Where ancient oaks stand guard and whisper low, Their branches stretch like arms to greet the sky, Inviting travellers to let their worries go.

Brute

In the hush of dawn, a brute awakes, Muscles coiled like spring‑tight rope, His breath a low, relentless rumble— Earth trembles where his footsteps gape. He roams the moor, a savage grace, Eyes

Meter

In the quiet workshop of the world we trace, A silver thread called metre, straight and true— It measures gardens, streets, and outer space, Binding the vast to the familiar hue. Yet

Skiff

In the quiet harbour’s amber glow, A slender skiff drifts, slow and low, Its wooden hull a whispered tale, Of tide‑kissed journeys and the gull’s soft wail. Oars dip in rhythm, silver‑bright, Cutting

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