Poetry

Wrath

Wrath A storm brews in the breast of stone, Thunder‑clad and clenched in iron‑tone, It gathers like a heavy cloud Above the quiet, cobbled crowd. It rides the wind through alleyways, Where

Empty

Empty rooms whisper with muted sighs, Where echoes linger like half‑remembered verses. Silence settles on the carpet, a pale grey quilt, Stitching together the seams of what once was. Chairs stand sentinel,

Tenth

Tenth On the tenth of March the frost still clings, A quiet hush beneath the leaden sky, When shadows stretch their slender, silver wings And whisper secrets of the days gone by.

Heart

In quiet chambers of the chest it lies, A scarlet drum, a steady, beating tide. It hums beneath the ribs, a whispered sigh, That pulls the blood through veins where life resides.

Flyer

Upon the notice board it lies, A splash of colour, crisp and bright, A flyer whispers of the night, Of jazz, of tea, of Saturday’s surprise. It folds itself in crisp white lines, Inviting passers‑by

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