Poetry

Drink

A cuppa steams beside the hearth, Its amber swirl a quiet mirth. Or perhaps a pint of bitter‑gold, Shared laughter rising, stories told. From tea to tonic, fizz to brew, Each sip a pause, the

Crank

In the workshop’s dim‑lit hush, The old crank turns with stubborn gush, A rusted arm that grinds the gear, Singing low for all who hear. Though folk may call him odd, a crank, He keeps

Slump

In the hush of a November dusk, the town slipped gently into a slump— the factories’ chimneys exhaled thin smoke, the high street’s shop‑fronts wore a weary lump. Commuters trudged in sodden

Tiger

Stalking through amber grass, the tiger prowls, A silent flame in twilight’s hush, His coat a tapestry of midnight gold, Each stripe a whisper of the jungle’s lore. Eyes like molten amber,

Siege

Siege Upon the grey dawn the banners hang low, A shroud of silence over stone and snow, The enemy’s eyes, like hawks, scan the wall, While trumpets muffle the distant call. Ramparts stand firm, their

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