Poetry

Prone

Prone upon the heath, the wind sighs low, A shadow spreads where thistles grow, My thoughts, like weary sheep, lie prone, Waiting for the sun to claim its own.

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

Brain

In the quiet labyrinth of the skull, A soft grey city hums beneath the bone— Neurons fire like lanterns in the night, Weaving thoughts that flutter, swift and bright. Synapses whisper, a

Torch

In the night’s hush a torch flares bright, A steady beacon against the dark, Its flame a quiet promise, warm and light, Guiding wandering steps till morning’s spark. Hold it close, feel

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