Poetry

Birch

In the quiet glade the birch stands pale, Its silver bark a whispered tale, Against the sky a slender column, Rooted deep in earth’s soft loam. Leaves of green, like tiny coins, Tremble

Giddy

Giddy as a carousel in Battersea Park, My heart spins round like a teacup ride, Laughter bubbles up, a fizzy sherbet spark, And the world tilts, delightfully, wide‑eyed. I stumble on the

Onion

In humble skins of papery brown, An onion lies, its layers deep, A quiet sphere that rounds the town, Where tears and sweet aromas seep. When sliced, it weeps a crystal rain, Each

Write

In quiet rooms the ink begins to flow, A soft murmur of thoughts upon the page, Each sentence like a breath, a gentle glow, Turning the silence into words that engage. The writer’s hand,

Peace

In quiet hush of morning’s first light, When mist like silk drifts over fields of green, The world exhales, and wars take flight, Leaving space where gentle thoughts convene. Hands once clenched

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives