Poetry

Grout

The grout's a humble, gritty mate, Not flashy, but it holds the slate. In bathroom white or kitchen blue, It's where the patient work comes through. You mix it up, a paste so thick, With

Blame

In the hush of evening’s amber glow, A whisper slips through the cracked pane— A thin, relentless thread of blame, That winds itself around each vein. It settles on the shoulders of

Regal

Regal crowns of amber light, Glistening upon a velvet night, Sceptre raised in quiet pride, Where history and honour glide. Palace halls with tapestries deep, Whisper secrets that kings keep, Throne of oak, in

Sedan

On rain‑slick streets a sleek saloon glides, Its polished bonnet catching city lights, A quiet hum beneath the muted tyres, Where commuters share the hush of night. The boot holds dreams, the

Belie

Belie In the hush of twilight, a smile belies the storm, A quiet laugh that masks a furrowed brow, The rose’s blush belies its thorns, warm, Yet truth, like fog, will somehow

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