Poetry

Beaut

In a quiet lane where lilacs sigh, A single rose unfolds its hue, Petals blushing soft as sky, A modest bloom, a gentle brew. Its fragrance drifts on evening air, A whispered promise,

Broad

Broad horizons stretch beyond the street, Where fields of green meet the amber wheat, The river sighs, a silver thread, Through valleys wide where footsteps tread. Broad smiles of strangers, warm and kind, In Britain’s

Debit

Debit whispers from the ledger's quiet page, A steady pulse where numbers gently sway, Each transaction a soft, unhurried stage, Where credit's echo fades to measured grey. It tells the tale of

Drawn

Drawn In quiet rooms where shadows play, A pencil sighs upon the page— Its graphite whispers, soft and grey, Engaging thoughts in silent stage. Each line a breath, each curve a sigh, A portrait

Rerun

Rerun On the flickering screen the same scene sighs, A familiar chorus in muted tones— Lines we once laughed at, now stale as old pies, Repeating the jokes that we’ve already known.

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives