Poetry

Grief

In the hush of dawn, a quiet ache settles like mist upon the pane, where laughter once rang bright and clear, now echoes fade to soft refrain. Grief wears a coat of

Shorn

Shorn In the hush of early morning, A ewe stands bare, her wool withdrawn, The pale sun glints on fleece‑less back, As though the heavens had been sheared. We, too, are

Plank

A weathered plank lies upon the shore, its grain a map of time’s own lore. Once part of a ship that cut the spray, now it dreams of tides that fade away.

Acrid

Acrid In the kitchen’s quiet hush, a wisp of smoke curls, Acrid as burnt toast, it bites the nostrils, A sharp, sour tang that tingles the tongue, Like orange zest left too long in

Ethic

The quiet pulse of conscience beats, A steady drum beneath the streets, Where right and wrong in shadows play, And choices whisper night and day. In boardrooms, labs, and village halls, Ethic calls,

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