Poetry

Write

In quiet rooms the ink begins to flow, A soft murmur of thoughts upon the page, Each sentence like a breath, a gentle glow, Turning the silence into words that engage. The writer’s hand,

Wordy

Loquacious lanes where sentences unwind, A river of words that refuses to find Its bank, it spills in endless, winding streams, Each syllable a bright, bewildering gleam. The page grows stout with

Verve

Verve bursts like a sunrise over Camden, A spark that leaps from pavement to the Thames, It hums in bustling markets, bright and random, Where laughter rings and every heart exclaims. It’s

Scrub

Scrub In morning light the kitchen sighs, A sponge awash with sudsy skies, It darts across the chipped‑blue tiles, Whisking away the greasy miles. The bristles knead the stubborn stain, Like tiny soldiers on

Snaky

The road snaky curls through hill and dale, A silvery ribbon upon the pavement’s tale. It winds like a serpent ’neath amber light, Turning left, then right, in quiet delight. Travellers pause, tracing its

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