Poetry

Giddy

Giddy as a carousel in Battersea Park, My heart spins round like a teacup ride, Laughter bubbles up, a fizzy sherbet spark, And the world tilts, delightfully, wide‑eyed. I stumble on the

Scrub

Scrub In morning light the kitchen sighs, A sponge awash with sudsy skies, It darts across the chipped‑blue tiles, Whisking away the greasy miles. The bristles knead the stubborn stain, Like tiny soldiers on

Snaky

The road snaky curls through hill and dale, A silvery ribbon upon the pavement’s tale. It winds like a serpent ’neath amber light, Turning left, then right, in quiet delight. Travellers pause, tracing its

Wrath

Wrath A storm brews in the breast of stone, Thunder‑clad and clenched in iron‑tone, It gathers like a heavy cloud Above the quiet, cobbled crowd. It rides the wind through alleyways, Where

Empty

Empty rooms whisper with muted sighs, Where echoes linger like half‑remembered verses. Silence settles on the carpet, a pale grey quilt, Stitching together the seams of what once was. Chairs stand sentinel,

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