Poetry

Ladle

Ode to the Ladle In the kettle’s steamy sigh, A humble ladle waits nearby, Its curved belly, polished steel, Cradles broth that tastes of zeal. With each gentle swoop and tilt, It

Navel

In the quiet centre of our belly’s curve, A tiny hollow where the umbilical thread once served, Now a secret dimple, soft and warm, A quiet reminder of the life that once was

Check

A quiet pause, a moment’s check, The hand that lifts, the breath that steadies— A simple tick upon the list, A whisper of assurance, soft and mild. In corridors of thought we

Spear

In the hush of dawn the warrior lifts his spear, A slender shaft tipped with keen-edged steel, Wood grown from ancient oak, now hardened by fire, Each grain a story of battles past,

Deity

In the hush of ancient hills, a deity sighs, Whispering through mist‑cloaked vales where thunder lies. Eyes like polished amber scan the shifting tide, Hands that mould the dawn, where night and day

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