Poetry

Tweak

My favourite habit is to tweak and tune, A quiet turn of the screw in thought’s repose, Each subtle shift a soft, sincere monologue, Turning the ordinary into something new.

Route

On the winding route through misty hills, Footsteps echo where the old railway sighs, Each bend a story, each gate a thrill, The world unfolds in quiet, steady skies.

Brief

Cotton hugs the hips so neat, A favoured cut, both trim and sweet. No excess cloth, no pointless flare, Just honest comfort, cool and airy. It holds its place with quiet grace, A

Cable

Cables coil like serpents in the night, Their copper hearts humming low, a steady light, From street‑side ducts to homes they softly glide, Carrying whispers, songs, where thoughts reside. In lofts and

Salty

Salty whispers curl with tide‑kissed air, A briny breath upon the harbour’s sigh. Sea‑kissed shells and weather‑worn sails flare, Each grain a memory of ocean’s shy. From clifftop grass to fish‑market stalls, The

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