Poetry

Kazoo

A humble kazoo, of tin and thin membrane, Whispers a buzz where song would claim, With just a hum, a breath, a sigh— It turns our voice to comic sky. In pubs

Strap

A humble strap of leather, Looping tight around the wrist, Binding watch to pulse, A quiet promise kept. It pulls the day together, Like a seam in well‑worn cloth, Holding moments close, Until the clasp

Wrong

Wrong a thin seam in the fabric of thought, where certainty frays and the mind stumbles, like a traveller who takes the left‑hand turn when the signpost points straight ahead. It is the

Balsa

Balsa whispers through the workshop air, A feather‑soft timber, light as prayer. Its grain, a lattice of honeyed grace, Cradles dreams that dare to take up space. From humble planks it shapes

Grief

In the hush of dawn, a quiet ache settles like mist upon the pane, where laughter once rang bright and clear, now echoes fade to soft refrain. Grief wears a coat of

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives