Poetry

Bacon

Bacon – a rasher of sunrise, Sizzling gently in the pan, Each strip a golden whisper of flavour, Crisp at the edges, tender within. It drifts on the air like a familiar

Globe

Upon the silent sphere of earth we trace, A blue‑green marble turning slow in space, Where oceans whisper secrets old and deep, And mountains guard the dreams that valleys keep. From bustling streets of

Spent

Spent The afternoon sun fell low, a tired gold, as we counted coins that had slipped through our fingers— each note a whisper of evenings once bright, now folded flat in the hollow of

Chain

Chain In the dim morning light, a chain of mist Crawls over cobbled lanes, a silvery list Of moments linked, each link a breath, a sigh— A tethered tale that wanders, never shy.

Shift

Shift In the quiet hush of dawn, the world begins to turn, A gentle shift of light that paints the sky in amber gold. Leaves, once still, now whisper as a breeze decides

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