Poetry

Glaze

On the warm bun, a mirror gleam, Sugar spun on morning air. A quiet crack, a gentle gleam— The promise of the baker's care. Not born of fire, nor kiln's deep glow, But

Flare

A sudden flare across the night, A ruby tongue that licks the dark, It sputters, bright, then fades to light, A fleeting spark that leaves its mark. In quiet fields the bonfires gleam, Their crackling

Mania

Mania In fevered nights the mind ignites, A restless blaze that none can tame— Ideas erupt like sparks of light, Each thought a flame that cries its name. Hearts pound in

Bleak

Bleak In the hollow of a winter dawn, the sky hangs heavy, a slate‑grey shroud, while frost etches silent lace on windowpanes, and the world holds its breath beneath a thin, unforgiving light. Fields lie fallow,

Phony

In the bustling High Street’s polished glare, A smile is offered, bright but bare— A glossy coat of courteous cheer, Hollow as a shop‑window’s veneer. Words tumble out like sugar‑spun biscuits, Sweet to

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