Poetry

Elfin

Elfin In the hush of moon‑kissed glades, where fern‑fronds sigh and wild thyme spreads, there flits a silhouette of grace— elfin, lithe, with laughter’s trace. Her eyes are dew‑kissed amber pools, reflecting

Alley

Alleyways at Dusk In the hush of twilight’s sigh, the alley wakes, A narrow vein of stone and shadowed slate, Where brick walls whisper stories that they make, And lanterns flicker, soft as a

Prude

In quiet lanes where primroses bow, A prude does walk with measured tread, Her gaze averse to any row, She shields her soul from idle thread. She sips her Earl Grey, steeped

Carom

Carom On the green baize, a quiet stage, the cue‑ball waits in patient gauge, its polished skin a moonlit sphere, ready to whisper, “draw us near.” A tap, a sigh, the stroke takes

Laden

Laden in the mist of early dawn, A lorry rumbles down the lane, Its chassis bowed beneath the weight Of crates that spill their ruby rain— Apples bruised, yet sweetly bright, Each one a whisper

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