Poetry

Carve

In wood and stone the quiet hand will carve, A whispered story in each grain and groove. With chisel keen, the craftsman's heart does stir, Turning raw timber into forms that live. Each stroke

Mommy

Mummy’s hands are warm and steady, Her laughter rings like chimes in the kitchen, She weaves love into every Sunday roast, And tucks stories beneath the quilt of night. In her eyes I find

Joint

On the carvery slab the joint of beef does rest, A marbled canvas, deep and rich in colour, The butcher’s labour yields a tender feast, While rosemary and thyme perfume the air. It is

Wagon

On quiet lanes where hedges sigh, An old waggon trundles by, Its wooden wheels a creaking song, Carrying memories along. Painted in muted ochre hue, Its canvas top a weathered view, It bears the

Brain

In the quiet labyrinth of the skull, A soft grey city hums beneath the bone— Neurons fire like lanterns in the night, Weaving thoughts that flutter, swift and bright. Synapses whisper, a

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