Poetry

Relic

Relic In dust‑laden corners of forgotten halls, A relic lies—its surface softened by time, A silent witness to epochs that fall, Whispering stories in a language sublime. Bronze or bone, it bears the

Tweak

My favourite habit is to tweak and tune, A quiet turn of the screw in thought’s repose, Each subtle shift a soft, sincere monologue, Turning the ordinary into something new.

Route

On the winding route through misty hills, Footsteps echo where the old railway sighs, Each bend a story, each gate a thrill, The world unfolds in quiet, steady skies.

Cable

Cables coil like serpents in the night, Their copper hearts humming low, a steady light, From street‑side ducts to homes they softly glide, Carrying whispers, songs, where thoughts reside. In lofts and

Salty

Salty whispers curl with tide‑kissed air, A briny breath upon the harbour’s sigh. Sea‑kissed shells and weather‑worn sails flare, Each grain a memory of ocean’s shy. From clifftop grass to fish‑market stalls, The

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