Poetry

Crisp

Crisp as a winter morning over the Highlands, the air bites clean, a fresh‑scented sigh. An apple’s snap, its juice a bright surprise, each crunch a chorus under grey‑streaked sky. Bacon sizzles

Prose

In the hush of dawn, prose unfolds, A steady river, broad and gold, No strict metre binds its flow, Yet carries dreams the heart must know. It labours not in verse’s tight

Fancy

She wore her fancy in her thoughts, not lace, A tea-stained reverie, a quiet grace. While others chased the shiny, new, and bright, She found her joy in soft, diffused light. No

Total

Total In quiet rows of numbers lined, A sum emerges, calm and kind— Each digit, a whispered thread, Weaving cloth where thoughts are fed. From single ones to countless nines, The total gathers, intertwines. It

Wafer

On a sun‑kissed plate the wafer rests, A delicate disc of golden biscuit, Its edges crisp as autumn leaves, Whispering sweet nothings with each bite. It cracks beneath a gentle press, Releasing buttery

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