Poetry

Whisk

In the quiet kitchen, steel curls and sings, A whisk of wire, a dancer’s rings. It twirls through cream, it lifts the white, Turning batter into morning light. Each loop a promise,

Quote

In the hush of ink‑stained pages, a whisper gathers in inverted commas— a quotation, a borrowed breath, held tenderly between two slim, upright marks. We lift a line from Shakespeare’s glow, from Austen’s

Gnash

Gnashing teeth in midnight’s hush, A restless jaw that won’t be hushed, Dreams of battle, fierce and raw, Where shadows gnash and spirits claw. Each bite a whisper, fierce yet frail, Against the

Birch

In the quiet glade the birch stands pale, Its silver bark a whispered tale, Against the sky a slender column, Rooted deep in earth’s soft loam. Leaves of green, like tiny coins, Tremble

Giddy

Giddy as a carousel in Battersea Park, My heart spins round like a teacup ride, Laughter bubbles up, a fizzy sherbet spark, And the world tilts, delightfully, wide‑eyed. I stumble on the

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