Poetry

Binge

Binge In the hush of a rainy night, the telly glows – a favourite programme, episodes spill like sweet tea, one after another, relentless. We sink into the sofa’s embrace, cushions plumped,

Viola

In the hush of evening’s amber glow, A viola sighs, its voice aglow— Rich and warm, a velvet tone, Whispering tales the strings have known. Bow caresses horsehair, soft and low, Drawing forth

Right

Right In the hush of morning light, I pause— To feel the pulse of what is just, A steady beat that rights the cause, Where conscience whispers, firm and just. It is not

Brush

In the quiet corner of the studio, a paint‑brush waits, its bristles still, ready to coax colour from the tube, to sweep the canvas with a lover's thrill. Each hair, a whisper

Close

Close Not the shut of door or book, But the steam that ghosts your cup As you lean, just fraction, near While the kettle sighs its favour. Shoulders almost touching, slow Like two biscuits in a

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