Poetry

Tweed

In misty highlands where the heather sighs, A weaver’s loom sings low beneath grey skies, Threads of wool, in muted earthen hue, Are spun to tweed, both sturdy and true. Worn by

Round

Round In the quiet of a Sunday morning, the sun climbs a perfect orb, spilling amber over the pavement, warming the stones like a buttered scone. Children chase a bright red ball across the green, their

Goner

Goner In the dim‑lit lane behind the old cinema, a figure slips, shoulders hunched against the rain, each step a whisper on the wet pavement, a sigh that the wind carries away like old

Wooer

A wooer walks the lane where blossoms sigh, His heart a drum of hopeful, steady beat; He courts the moon, he woos the evening sky, With verses stitched in silk and scented sweet.

Delta

Delta In the quiet hush of morning tide, the river sighs and splits its pride, spilling silver threads to meet the sea— a living Greek letter, Δ, set free. Each distributary, a slender

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