Poetry

Judge

In the hushed courtroom, shadows play, A gavel rests upon the stone‑grey table, Its weight a quiet promise, day by day, To balance truth where doubts are unstable. He wears the wig

Slate

On the quiet hill where old roofs sigh, A slab of slate lies low beneath the sky. Grey as a winter’s breath, its surface cool, A canvas kissed by rain, a mason’s tool.

Taper

A quiet wick, a slender thread, Where wax and wick together tread, It tapers—softly, gently drawn— A flame that sighs before the dawn. In candlelight the taper bends, A silken sigh that night

Usual

The usual sunrise slips through the blinds, A soft gold spill on the kitchen floor, The kettle sighs its familiar tune, Steam curling like a quiet thought. I pull on my well‑worn

Naive

Naive hearts beat soft in morning light, Trusting the world with a gentle sigh, They see the sky as a promise bright, And miss the shadows that wander by. In cobblestone lanes

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