Poetry

Ranch

On the soft‑hued hills of Somerset’s green, A ranch lies still beneath the wide‑blue sky, Where cattle drift in quiet, steady sheen, And lorries hum a low, contented sigh. The farmhouse stands

Strap

A humble strap of leather, Looping tight around the wrist, Binding watch to pulse, A quiet promise kept. It pulls the day together, Like a seam in well‑worn cloth, Holding moments close, Until the clasp

Wrong

Wrong a thin seam in the fabric of thought, where certainty frays and the mind stumbles, like a traveller who takes the left‑hand turn when the signpost points straight ahead. It is the

Guard

They stand so still in scarlet gleam, Bearskin tall, a rigid dream. Eyes fixed front, a stoic line, While tourists snap and phones align. No word they speak, no glance they trade, Yet

Balsa

Balsa whispers through the workshop air, A feather‑soft timber, light as prayer. Its grain, a lattice of honeyed grace, Cradles dreams that dare to take up space. From humble planks it shapes

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