Poetry

Empty

Empty rooms whisper with muted sighs, Where echoes linger like half‑remembered verses. Silence settles on the carpet, a pale grey quilt, Stitching together the seams of what once was. Chairs stand sentinel,

Party

At the garden gate the bunting flutters, Colours bright as summer tea, Friends gather round with laughter’s chatter, Glasses clink in mellow glee. The DJ spins a vinyl groove, Feet tap on the

Tenth

Tenth On the tenth of March the frost still clings, A quiet hush beneath the leaden sky, When shadows stretch their slender, silver wings And whisper secrets of the days gone by.

Style

In the hush of a city’s quiet lane, Where cobblestones echo a bygone refrain, A coat of tweed drapes over shoulders bold, A whisper of silk, a tale of gold. Style is

Heart

In quiet chambers of the chest it lies, A scarlet drum, a steady, beating tide. It hums beneath the ribs, a whispered sigh, That pulls the blood through veins where life resides.

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