Poetry

Honey

Golden drops in sunlit comb, A humming hive’s sweet amber home. From clover fields to heather’s sigh, Bees weave their nectar, thick and shy. Spread upon warm scones, it gleams— Britain’s liquid sunshine, fulfilled in

Broad

Broad horizons stretch beyond the street, Where fields of green meet the amber wheat, The river sighs, a silver thread, Through valleys wide where footsteps tread. Broad smiles of strangers, warm and kind, In Britain’s

Harsh

Harsh In the hush of dawn, the wind bites keen, A frosted breath that tears the quiet green, It scrapes the hedges, strips the leaf‑soft sheen, And turns the fields to iron‑grey sheen. Harsh are

Aisle

In the hushed nave of the old stone church, An aisle runs soft beneath the choir’s hymn, Flagstones worn by centuries of tread, Where whispered prayers and silent vows descend. Beyond the

Debit

Debit whispers from the ledger's quiet page, A steady pulse where numbers gently sway, Each transaction a soft, unhurried stage, Where credit's echo fades to measured grey. It tells the tale of

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