Poetry

Foyer

In the foyer of a Georgian townhouse, where marble steps meet a polished oak, the scent of lavender drifts from a vase, and a grandfather clock ticks a soft, steady stroke. A

Royal

In the hushed corridors of ancient stone, A crown of gold catches the dawn’s soft tone, Where regal footsteps echo through the hall, And whispers of the throne enthral. The sovereign’s gaze,

Fewer

Fewer footsteps echo down the lane, Fewer clouds linger in the grey‑tinged sky, Fewer words are whispered in the rain, Fewer hearts beat beneath the same old sigh. Yet in the quiet

Purge

Purge In the cold light of morning, the house sighs— rooms stripped of the clutter that clung like old regret. Each drawer opened, a silent confession, papers yellowed, photographs faded, the weight of

Their

Their hands, once dusted with summer’s earth, Now trace the quiet edges of memory’s hearth, Where laughter lingers in the amber light Of tea‑stained mugs and soft, forgiving night. Their voices, a

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