Poetry

Rough

Rough On the cobbled lane the stones lie rough, their edges worn by centuries of tread, each fragment telling stories tough, of carts that creaked and feet that shed the dust of market‑day

Grift

A grin behind a polished smile, the grifter walks the bustling street, whilst trust, a fragile thing, beguiled, slips through his fingers like deceit. He sells a dream in gilded paper, a promise

Shuck

On the wind‑kissed pier at dawn, the tide pulls back its silver curtain, revealing rows of pearl‑clad secrets nestled in the cold, damp sand. A weather‑worn hand grips the knife, its blade catching

Pitch

On the cricket field, the pitch lies low, A strip of earth where fortunes flow, Hardened by sun and stubborn rain, It tests the bat, it guards the strain. The bowler’s arm

Yeast

In a quiet kitchen, warm and dim, A tiny kingdom stirs within the bowl— Yeast, the humble chemist, soft and grim, Awakes to feed on sugar’s sweet carol. It buds and sighs,

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