Poetry

Stool

On a low, wooden stool I perch, Its sturdy legs a humble church Of quiet thought and steady grace, A simple seat in time and space. It bears the weight of weary

Crust

A slice of pie, its crust a golden lace, holds within a spiced apple flavour, each flake a whisper of buttered labour, cracking like dawn over a sleepy village.

Fresh

Fresh In the hush of dawn, the dew‑kissed grass exhales, A scent of earth, of green, of morning’s first sigh. The baker’s oven sighs warm loaves onto the counter, Crust crackling like autumn leaves

Feign

Feigning smiles in cafés where the rain taps softly, We mask our thoughts behind a polite façade, A veneer of calm that flutters like a moth, While underneath, true feelings stir unseen. In the

Karma

Karma turns the quiet wheel of deeds, A soft echo in the marrow of each day, What we sow in thought, in word, in gentle creed, Returns to us like rain on Lancashire

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