Poetry

March

March tiptoes in on a chill wind’s sigh, Grey clouds unfold like tired parchment, While daffodils thrust their golden heads Through frost‑bitten earth, reluctant to yield. The days grow longer, a hesitant

Voter

In the hush of morning, a voter walks slow, Past shut‑up cafés and the grey‑stone row, To the polling station where the queue does form, A quiet promise against the storm. With

Grout

The grout's a humble, gritty mate, Not flashy, but it holds the slate. In bathroom white or kitchen blue, It's where the patient work comes through. You mix it up, a paste so thick, With

Blame

In the hush of evening’s amber glow, A whisper slips through the cracked pane— A thin, relentless thread of blame, That winds itself around each vein. It settles on the shoulders of

Regal

Regal crowns of amber light, Glistening upon a velvet night, Sceptre raised in quiet pride, Where history and honour glide. Palace halls with tapestries deep, Whisper secrets that kings keep, Throne of oak, in

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