Poetry

Vigor

Vigour blooms like sunrise on the hill, A steady pulse that drives the will, It courses through each limb and breath, A lively spark that mocks fatigue and death. In morning’s crisp,

Bough

Beneath the canopy’s soft, leafy sigh, A lone bough stretches, brave and high, Its twigs like fingers clutch the sky, Whispering tales as breezes drift‑by. In autumn’s hush it dons a crown Of

Sting

Barefoot through the hedgerow, slow and low, Where tangled briars and sweet briars grow, A sudden sharpness, bright and neat, Ooh! That nettle got my barefoot sweet. Smarting starts, a tiny fire, Making

Leave

Leave In the hush of a railway station, steam curls like whispered goodbyes, the platform sighs under a grey‑tinted sky, as footsteps retreat on wet cobbles. A suitcase thuds, a latch clicks shut, the

Grate

Upon the cold hearth, the iron grate sighs, Its bars a lattice for ember’s shy rise. Each flicker of flame finds purchase, a dance, As sparks whisper secrets in soot‑filled trance. The kitchen’s grater,

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