Poetry

Wrong

Wrong a thin seam in the fabric of thought, where certainty frays and the mind stumbles, like a traveller who takes the left‑hand turn when the signpost points straight ahead. It is the

Guard

They stand so still in scarlet gleam, Bearskin tall, a rigid dream. Eyes fixed front, a stoic line, While tourists snap and phones align. No word they speak, no glance they trade, Yet

Balsa

Balsa whispers through the workshop air, A feather‑soft timber, light as prayer. Its grain, a lattice of honeyed grace, Cradles dreams that dare to take up space. From humble planks it shapes

Skimp

Skimp In a modest kitchen, the kettle hums low, Tea leaves rationed, a whisper of steam. Bread is sliced thin, the butter’s a gleam, Each crumb a treasure, each sip a soft

Brash

Bold and brash the summer sun ascends, A splash of brass upon the pond that bends. He laughs too loud in market streets, his words A crash of colour, bright as tea‑time curds.

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