Poetry

Lousy

Lousy – a word that drags its heels through a drizzle‑slicked pavement, the sort of day when the sky feels like a grey woollen blanket pulled too tight. Your tea turns bitter, the toast

Nasal

In the quiet hush of morning light, A twitch within the nasal way, A scent of damp earth, of tea, of rain, Stirs memories in muted grey. The bridge of bone, a

Imbue

Imbue In quiet rooms where thoughts take flight, You imbue the dawn with gentle light, A soft infusion, quiet, deep, That wakes the hues that shadows keep. Each breath a pigment,

Coral

Beneath the sapphire tide they lie, A quiet garden, soft and sighs, Where coral colonies gently spread, Their branches like delicate lacework threads. Polyps in quiet communion thrive, Each tiny architect, alive, Secreting limestone,

Assay

The Assay In every assay, a question lies— Not just in test tube or in tray, But in the spark when effort tries To turn the grey into daylight. The chemist weighs with

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives