Poetry

Crank

In the workshop’s dim‑lit hush, The old crank turns with stubborn gush, A rusted arm that grinds the gear, Singing low for all who hear. Though folk may call him odd, a crank, He keeps

Slump

In the hush of a November dusk, the town slipped gently into a slump— the factories’ chimneys exhaled thin smoke, the high street’s shop‑fronts wore a weary lump. Commuters trudged in sodden

Tiger

Stalking through amber grass, the tiger prowls, A silent flame in twilight’s hush, His coat a tapestry of midnight gold, Each stripe a whisper of the jungle’s lore. Eyes like molten amber,

Siege

Siege Upon the grey dawn the banners hang low, A shroud of silence over stone and snow, The enemy’s eyes, like hawks, scan the wall, While trumpets muffle the distant call. Ramparts stand firm, their

Troll

Beneath the moss‑clad stone of an old railway bridge, A troll lurks where the river sighs and the willows dip, His skin the colour of peat after a long autumn rain, Eyes like

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