Poetry

Heart

In quiet chambers of the chest it lies, A scarlet drum, a steady, beating tide. It hums beneath the ribs, a whispered sigh, That pulls the blood through veins where life resides.

Flyer

Upon the notice board it lies, A splash of colour, crisp and bright, A flyer whispers of the night, Of jazz, of tea, of Saturday’s surprise. It folds itself in crisp white lines, Inviting passers‑by

Crone

She walks the lanes where moss clings to stone, A crone with eyes that hold the dusk’s own tone. Her hair, a silver veil, whispers of time, Each strand a thread in the

Fiend

In the sable night's grim shroud, A fiend stalks the lonely moor, His breath a chill, his eyes like coal, He prowls where wary folk keep their door. With cloven hooves and

Whirl

In the quiet kitchen, the kettle sings a low whirl, Steam curls like a dancer’s skirt, a soft, silver swirl. Outside, autumn leaves catch the gust, a restless whirl, Spinning memories inward, where

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