Poetry

Joint

On the carvery slab the joint of beef does rest, A marbled canvas, deep and rich in colour, The butcher’s labour yields a tender feast, While rosemary and thyme perfume the air. It is

Brain

In the quiet labyrinth of the skull, A soft grey city hums beneath the bone— Neurons fire like lanterns in the night, Weaving thoughts that flutter, swift and bright. Synapses whisper, a

Torch

In the night’s hush a torch flares bright, A steady beacon against the dark, Its flame a quiet promise, warm and light, Guiding wandering steps till morning’s spark. Hold it close, feel

Smoke

Smoke In the hush of dawn, a thin grey veil rises from the hearth, a quiet breath of burnt pine and distant ember, curling like whispered secrets that slip through the fingers of

Press

Ink‑stained fingers trace the age‑old press, Where lead and type once sang in rhythmic quest. The clatter of the forme, a steady beat, Whispers of stories that the world would meet. Now

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