Poetry

Whose

Whose fingers trace the moon’s soft veil, Whose sighs become the evening’s sigh, Whose laughter rolls down cobbled lanes, Whose tears collect in rain‑kissed gutters. Whose thoughts are whispered in the fog, Whose

Dummy

In the shop window stands a dummy, pale and still, A wooden smile frozen against the chill. Its porcelain eyes stare out at hurried feet, While rain‑slick streets reflect a muted beat.

Weedy

Weedy thoughts drift like thin green tendrils, Through cracked paving stones of a city lane, They clutch at the sun with pale, hesitant fingers, Seeking a crack where light might remain. In

Known

Known They say I'm known, a face in every crowd, A name called out, a story oft retold. Yet deeper currents flow beneath the loud And unseen channels where my truth is held. The laughter

Inbox

In the quiet hum of morning light, My inbox waits, a digital post‑room, Letters arrive like pigeons on the sill, Each subject line a coloured envelope. I sort the urgent, the spam,

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