Poetry

Brute

In the hush of dawn, a brute awakes, Muscles coiled like spring‑tight rope, His breath a low, relentless rumble— Earth trembles where his footsteps gape. He roams the moor, a savage grace, Eyes

Meter

In the quiet workshop of the world we trace, A silver thread called metre, straight and true— It measures gardens, streets, and outer space, Binding the vast to the familiar hue. Yet

Skiff

In the quiet harbour’s amber glow, A slender skiff drifts, slow and low, Its wooden hull a whispered tale, Of tide‑kissed journeys and the gull’s soft wail. Oars dip in rhythm, silver‑bright, Cutting

Ensue

Ensue When the rain sighs on the cobblestones, A ripple of steam curls from the pavement, Each droplet a quiet promise that follows, A soft‑spoken sequel to the storm’s refrain. Footsteps echo on

Scale

On the kitchen table, a brass scale rests, Its polished arms like quiet sentinels. A gentle sigh of metal as it settles, Balancing the world in grammes and ounces. Feathers of flour

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