Poetry

Phony

In the bustling High Street’s polished glare, A smile is offered, bright but bare— A glossy coat of courteous cheer, Hollow as a shop‑window’s veneer. Words tumble out like sugar‑spun biscuits, Sweet to

Noble

A quiet hall where echoes glide, The air is thick with old‑world pride; There stands a soul both firm and true, A banner borne in humble hue. His heart, a compass forged

Retry

Retry When the screen fades to a muted grey, And the controller slips from sweaty palm, I press the button, start again today— A second chance, a quiet, hopeful calm. Each misstep is

Mercy

Mercy, a quiet tide, washes the harshest stone, softening the edge of pride until the heart beats alone. It lingers in the sigh of a mother, the pause before a harsh word, the gentle

Leaky

Leaky whispers from the kitchen tap, A steady drip that marks the quiet hour. Each bead of water clings to rusted chrome, A tiny flood that gathers in the sink. The old

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