Poetry

American History X

American History X In a stark, sepulchral light the scene is set, A little square in London’s quiet streets, Yet the film is not of rain or that‑old‑city grey, It bears the scars of

Casablanca

Upon the cusp of dawn in calm Casablanca, the harbour sighs like an old dear’s lullaby, its waves lapping the quay wrought in copper‑coloured dreams. The city, a half‑dream of stone

Strut

The Strut In the quiet heart of a bridge, where steel meets stone, there is a silent column, a straight‑angled bone. It carries the weight of a thousand feet‑high skylines, a steadfast

Modern Times

Modern Times The dawn flickers across the glass of a hot‑press flat, a quiet hum of electricity. My morning coffee sits beside a screen in amber glow, the world delegated to a slideshow of

The Usual Suspects

In the hushed hush of an empty avenue, Where lamps flicker like tired heartbeats, The city keeps its ache on the back of the night, And whispers ask, “Who’s the usual suspect?” They are

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