Poetry

Award

A gleam upon the shelf, a modest prize, A quiet testament to steady hands, It catches light in muted, humble guise— Not gaudy fanfare, but the quiet stands Of effort woven through the daily

Madly

Madly we chase the sunrise, With hearts that beat like drumming rain, In streets of London's grey, Where thoughts collide like trains. We laugh, we weep, we dance insane, Our laughter rings like

Trail

On the quiet edge of the wood, a narrow trail winds through amber leaves, soft underfoot as the morning mist lingers like a sigh over the ferns. It threads between ancient oaks, their

Rumba

In the heat of a Havana night, the rumba calls, A pulse of drums that beats like a restless heart. Feet slide on cobbled stones, hips sway in slow‑motion waltz, Each step a

Chore

A chore is a quiet kind of labour, a task that asks for tidy hands and steady rhythm, wiping the kettle, folding the socks, sweeping the porch where autumn leaves collect. It

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