Poetry

Cliff

The Cliff On the salt‑soaked coast the cliff stands, a granite sentinel, Its weathered face a map of weathered clues worn by the wind. Above, gulls wheel in endless loops, where sky meets

Rear Window

Rear Window In the dim glow of a Birmingham evening, I sit behind a cracked pane, a private screen. The city spills its neon lights, The world a tapestry of private scenes. Through the dusty

Baron

The Baron of Ashcombe Hall In the hollow where the old stone walls keep the dawn’s first sigh, the baron sat upon his plinth, a glass of port and a sigh for

Alien

In a quiet corner of a restless night, a visitor lands, a glinting star form— his tongue is not a whine of fright but a song, and his eyes, blue mirrors of a

Django Unchained

In the dust‑laden lanes of a forgotten South, a man of black furrowed brow steps through the river of roughed‑up red – Django speaking the tongue of the condemned, his name a

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