Poetry

Sweat

In the hush of dawn, beads of sweat glisten like dew, Each drop a quiet testament to effort’s hue. They trace the map of labour upon sun‑kissed skin, A salty chorus singing where

Stage

On the creaking boards of the old theatre, Lights spill amber like sunrise over a sleepy town, Actors tread the stage, their voices a quiet hum That swells to a chorus, then fades

Ninth

Upon the ninth day of September's sigh, The leaves turn amber, a quiet rustle, As the school bell rings its familiar chime, Children in neat blazers tread the cobbled mile. In music's

Scold

Scolded whispers drift like winter rain, Across the kitchen tiles, a stern refrain; Mum’s voice, a firm and fluttering broom, Sweeps away the crumbs of careless gloom. Yet in the echo, love’s soft tide

Cross

At the crossing of old stone lanes, A wooden cross stands, weathered, plain. Its arms outstretched like a traveller’s sigh, Marking where two roads entwine and lie. In dusk’s soft hue, shadows gather, A quiet

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