Poetry

Shuck

On the wind‑kissed pier at dawn, the tide pulls back its silver curtain, revealing rows of pearl‑clad secrets nestled in the cold, damp sand. A weather‑worn hand grips the knife, its blade catching

Pitch

On the cricket field, the pitch lies low, A strip of earth where fortunes flow, Hardened by sun and stubborn rain, It tests the bat, it guards the strain. The bowler’s arm

Yeast

In a quiet kitchen, warm and dim, A tiny kingdom stirs within the bowl— Yeast, the humble chemist, soft and grim, Awakes to feed on sugar’s sweet carol. It buds and sighs,

Tripe

Ode to Tripe In bustling market stalls, where aromas blend, A humble dish awaits the daring friend: Tripe, the cow’s soft lining, blanched and white, Simmered slow with onions, herbs, and bite. It

Shush

Shush! A soft sigh slips between the pages, A hush that curls like steam From a teacup left to cool, And in that quiet the world leans closer, Listening to the rustle of thoughts That dare

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