Poetry

Retro

In dim-lit rooms where vinyl sighs, The crackle sings of yesteryear’s prize, Cassette winds its magnetic thread, While pixel ghosts in Atari’s shed Glitch neon dreams of pastel hue, A retro heartbeat, pure and true.

Awful

Awful— the sky cracks open like a stale biscuit, its grey‑blue hue bleeding into the pavement, while a distant lorry groans, its exhaust curling like cold tea left too long in the pot.

Donor

A donor stands in quiet hall, With folded hands and steady gaze— Not seeking fame, nor craved applause, But giving life in modest ways. A vein may yield a ruby tide, A kidney’s

Trait

Trait A quiet seed in mind, it grows— A habit, bent, or favoured pose, Whether it be the patient tread Of one who waits in every queue, Or sudden spark that lights the

Hinge

On the quiet door of morning’s hinge, A silent swing begins— Metal sighing, softly pinching Old oak to welcome day. It bears the weight of comings, goings, Each turn a measured breath, A tiny

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