Poetry

Hunch

A hunch, a whisper in the quiet mind, A flicker of the unseen, half‑formed, half‑blind. It tugs at thoughts like mist upon the Thames, A subtle pull that sways our secret aims.

Sense

Sense – a quiet compass in the breast, A whisper of the world that lingers, Not merely sight, nor sound, nor taste, But the subtle thread that weaves them all. It is

Match

On a damp kitchen shelf, a solitary match lies, its wooden shaft a humble brown, the sulphur tip a shy surprise. When struck against the rough‑hewn side, a sudden flare ignites— a tiny

Price

Price In market stalls where voices rise, A quiet ledger holds the ties— Each coin exchanged, a whispered trade, The worth of things that hands have made. Not only gold nor silvered gleam, But

Which

Which In the hush between two thoughts, the word “which” lingers like a mist, a soft‑spun thread that pulls at the seams of every choice we have yet to make. It

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