Poetry

Havoc

Havoc In the quiet lane of morning light, A sudden gust awakens fright— Leaves whirl in frantic, dancing spree, As wind turns calm to wild decree. The market square erupts in sound, Stalls overturn,

Impel

Impel — A quiet force that nudges the night, A whisper in the marrow of the bone, It turns the restless tide of thought to light, And lifts the weary heart from stone

Condo

In the glass‑fronted condo, sunlight spills, Over balconies where tea steam curls, Neighbours greet with a polite “good day”, While the lift hums like a contented cat, Car park below holds bicycles and prams, And

Judge

In the hushed courtroom, shadows play, A gavel rests upon the stone‑grey table, Its weight a quiet promise, day by day, To balance truth where doubts are unstable. He wears the wig

Slate

On the quiet hill where old roofs sigh, A slab of slate lies low beneath the sky. Grey as a winter’s breath, its surface cool, A canvas kissed by rain, a mason’s tool.

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives