Poetry

Shorn

Shorn In the hush of early morning, A ewe stands bare, her wool withdrawn, The pale sun glints on fleece‑less back, As though the heavens had been sheared. We, too, are

Plank

A weathered plank lies upon the shore, its grain a map of time’s own lore. Once part of a ship that cut the spray, now it dreams of tides that fade away.

Below

Beneath the city’s humming streets, where the pavement sighs beneath tired feet, the world below unfolds in quiet grace, a hidden realm of stone and time’s embrace. Down in the tube’s echoing

Guppy

In the quiet of the aquarium, A guppy darts, a flash of orange flame, Its tiny fins a delicate fan, A living jewel in water’s plan. From shallow streams to glass‑bound tanks, It

Unzip

Unzip the seam, a quiet sigh, The teeth part slow beneath the sky— Whether a coat, a rucksack, or a file, Each click reveals a hidden mile. From wool‑lined pockets to digital

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