Poetry

Stout

In the dim‑lit tavern, a pint of stout waits, Its midnight hue a cloak of roasted barley fate. Silky as a woolen jumper on a Yorkshire morn, It whispers of oak, of coffee,

Ivory

Ivory Soft as the morning mist that drapes the lake, A quiet gleam where elephant tusks lie. It holds the memory of sun‑kissed savanna, Of ancient trade routes winding through the dust, Where traders bartered

First

First In the hush before sunrise, a lone footfall meets the dew‑slick pavement, the world tilting on the edge of night – the first breath of day, crisp as fresh‑baked scone. A child’s

Outdo

In the hush of morning, I try to outdo the sunrise, To paint the sky with colours brighter than any neighbour’s dream, Each breath a challenge, each step a quiet vow to

Abase

When pride is stripped and honour’s crown is bowed, We watch the mighty sink, their spirits subdued. To abase a soul is to pull the bright sky low, To drag the lofty mountain

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