Poetry

Graft

Graft In quiet rooms where surgeons mend, A needle pierces, thread will blend— A piece of skin, a sliver taken, From donor’s flesh, a life awoken. The graft takes hold, a silent pact, New

Tower

It stands where black cabs halt and double-deckers creak, A needle of glass threading through the smog’s soft grey, Watching lorries groan and pavement puddles speak Of rain that’s come to stay (or

Annex

An annex of brick leans against the old manor, Its quiet façade a modest appendage, Where whispered plans are drawn in ink and paper, And futures are stitched into the stone’s grey seams.

Spore

In the hush of moss‑clad wood, a single spore awakes, Drifting on a breath of damp, it seeks the shadowed loam. Tiny, yet it holds the promise of a hidden kingdom, Where mycelium

Llama

In the high Andes where clouds cling like wool, A llama grazes, soft‑footed and cool, Its fleece a tapestry of earth‑tone hue, A quiet sentinel beneath the blue. With gentle eyes that

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