Poetry

Toast

Golden slices greet the morning light, Crisp and warm, a humble delight. Slathered in butter, jam, or marmalade, A simple toast, the day’s first parade. From the toaster’s gentle sigh to the

Sunny

Sunlight spills across the meadow, golden threads of morning light, warming every blade of grass, turning dew to tiny prisms. The sky, a clear cerulean dome, holds the sun in quiet triumph, while sparrows

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

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