Poetry

Savor

Savour the hush of morning’s first light, When dew clings like silver on grass, And the world exhales a quiet delight— A gentle reminder that moments can last. Savour the taste of

Dolly

On a dusty shelf in Granny’s attic, A rag‑clad dolly waits with stitched‑on smile, Her button eyes have seen a hundred Christmases, And lullabies sung in a soft, Scottish while. She’s tucked

Paint

Upon the easel, blank and white, A brush in hand, the artist takes flight— Swaths of cerulean, vermilion, gold, Spread across the waiting canvas bold. Each stroke a whisper, each hue a

Scent

A whisper lingers on the breeze, A subtle hint of rosemary, It drifts through gardens, past the trees, Awakening the quiet reverie. The scent of rain on cobblestones, Petrichor, a damp perfume, It weaves

Terse

Terse In quiet rooms where words are few, Each syllable a measured thread, A whisper cuts the lingering hue Like morning frost on garden shed. A terse remark — sharp, clean, precise — Falls like a

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