Poetry

Inane

Inane thoughts drift like lazy clouds, A pointless chuckle, soft and loud— They tickle the mind with frivolous sighs, Where sense takes leave and nonsense flies. We stroll through corridors of daft

Photo

A single frame, a quiet breath, Caught in silver‑halide light, Where moments linger, soft and still— A photograph, a slice of night. The shutter clicks, the world stands still, Colours blend in muted

Foggy

In the hush of early morning, A silver veil descends, Foggy streets lie mute and dreaming, Where lamplight softly bends. The world becomes a watercolour, Each contour blurred, indistinct, Footsteps whisper on the cobbles, As

Denim

Denim whispers in cotton‑woven seams, A sturdy cloth that bears the street‑wise dreams. From work‑yard looms to city‑side cafés, Its indigo hue fades in sun‑kissed ways. Trousers cut with a straight, honest

Sting

Barefoot through the hedgerow, slow and low, Where tangled briars and sweet briars grow, A sudden sharpness, bright and neat, Ooh! That nettle got my barefoot sweet. Smarting starts, a tiny fire, Making

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