Poetry

Havoc

Havoc In the quiet lane of morning light, A sudden gust awakens fright— Leaves whirl in frantic, dancing spree, As wind turns calm to wild decree. The market square erupts in sound, Stalls overturn,

Condo

In the glass‑fronted condo, sunlight spills, Over balconies where tea steam curls, Neighbours greet with a polite “good day”, While the lift hums like a contented cat, Car park below holds bicycles and prams, And

Slate

On the quiet hill where old roofs sigh, A slab of slate lies low beneath the sky. Grey as a winter’s breath, its surface cool, A canvas kissed by rain, a mason’s tool.

Taper

A quiet wick, a slender thread, Where wax and wick together tread, It tapers—softly, gently drawn— A flame that sighs before the dawn. In candlelight the taper bends, A silken sigh that night

Usual

The usual sunrise slips through the blinds, A soft gold spill on the kitchen floor, The kettle sighs its familiar tune, Steam curling like a quiet thought. I pull on my well‑worn

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