Poetry
Institute
In the quiet cloisters of the Institute, Where minds are sharpened like a fine‑edged blade, Scholars labour over parchment and screen, Their thoughts a steady, unending cascade. The lecture theatre hums with
Read more →Latch
The Latch Upon the garden gate, a humble latch, A quiet keeper of the yard’s repose, It clicks with British grace, a modest catch That guards the blossoms where the sweet peas grows.
Read more →Easy peelers are Not the Only Fruit
Easy peelers are Not the Only Fruit They tell you life’s too short for pith, For skins that cling, or stones that grit, Just tear the tab, dispose the tray, While sunshine’s caught in
Read more →Riser
Upon the theatre's aged riser, Where curtains wait to part and sigh, The sun, a quiet riser, climbs higher, Painting the waking world with gold‑spun colour. The actors' breaths, like quiet tide, Collect
Read more →Puffy
It’s not the cloud, nor sleep-deprived eye, Nor bread that’s left too long to rise – No, puffy lives where quiet things comply: The teabag’s slow, reluctant sigh As it swells and dunks in
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