Poetry

Flood

When the heavens open with relentless rain, Rivers rise, their voices a low, angry refrain. Streets become mirrors, reflecting the grey sky, While gulls wheel above the swelling tide. Sandbags line the

Manor

In the hush of twilight’s amber gleam, The manor stands, a stone‑bound dream, Its turrets rise where ivy clings, A silent hymn the soft wind sings. Pan‑glassed windows catch the waning light, Reflecting

Hinge

On the quiet door of morning’s hinge, A silent swing begins— Metal sighing, softly pinching Old oak to welcome day. It bears the weight of comings, goings, Each turn a measured breath, A tiny

Money

In the clink of copper pennies, the weight of a pound feels both light and bold, a silver note slips from palm to till, whispering promises of queues and quiet dreams. We

Farce

In the cramped flat above the pavement, A knock‑about scene of unintended jest, When the postman trips over a stray biscuit tin, And the neighbour's cat launches a surprise protest. Letters flutter like startled

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