Poetry

Drawn

Drawn In quiet rooms where shadows play, A pencil sighs upon the page— Its graphite whispers, soft and grey, Engaging thoughts in silent stage. Each line a breath, each curve a sigh, A portrait

Rerun

Rerun On the flickering screen the same scene sighs, A familiar chorus in muted tones— Lines we once laughed at, now stale as old pies, Repeating the jokes that we’ve already known.

Widen

Widen the road that winds through misty hills, Where ancient oaks stand guard and whisper low, Their branches stretch like arms to greet the sky, Inviting travellers to let their worries go.

Faint

A hush of mist, a soft‑lit sigh, Faint footfalls on the dewy glade, Where amber light and shadows play, A whisper brushing leaf and blade. It is the colour of a doubt, A

Lithe

Lithe as willow boughs that sway, Graceful limbs in twilight play, Silken motion, soft and low, A ripple through the evening’s glow. Nimble as a cat’s swift tread, Footsteps light where shadows spread, Each

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