Poetry

Chalk

In the hushed classroom, a solitary stick, Of white calcium, humble and quick, It glides across the blackboard’s dark face, Leaving trails of thought in fleeting grace. The teacher’s hand, a steady

Feral

Feral In tangled hedgerows where the night grows old, A whiskered shadow slips through bramble‑gate, Its amber eyes reflect the moon’s cold gold, A creature born of instinct, not of fate. It pads

Forte

In the hush of evening’s muted gleam, My forte blooms like twilight’s shy refrain, A steady chord that breaks the dream, A quiet power that eases pain. It is not the shout

Speck

A tiny speck upon the pane, A wandering dust in morning's light, It drifts like hope, a quiet strain, That catches colour, soft and bright. In silent rooms it finds its place, A

Shaft

A narrow shaft of dawn slips through the blinds, A silken thread that pulls the night apart. It climbs the stone‑worn stair, a quiet wind, And paints the hallway with a trembling heart.

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