Poetry

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

Crisp

Crisp as a winter morning over the Highlands, the air bites clean, a fresh‑scented sigh. An apple’s snap, its juice a bright surprise, each crunch a chorus under grey‑streaked sky. Bacon sizzles

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

Atlas

Atlas In quiet rooms where paper sighs, An atlas lies, a world in fold, Its pages whisper ancient cries, Of mountains brave and seas untold. Each continent a coloured chart, Where rivers trace the amber line, And

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