Poetry

Troll

Beneath the moss‑clad stone of an old railway bridge, A troll lurks where the river sighs and the willows dip, His skin the colour of peat after a long autumn rain, Eyes like

Aside

Aside In quiet corners of the bustling day, A whispered thought drifts, soft and grey— An aside, a secret that the crowd can’t hear, A fleeting pause where doubts appear. It slips between the laughs

Acute

Acute In geometry’s quiet gaze, an angle sharp, Less than ninety, keen and bright, It points to corners where lines embark, A sliver of truth in pure light. Acute is also

Gripe

The Gripe In the queue for the bus, a sigh escapes, A low‑grade whinge that lingers like damp wool, He mutters about the late‑running service, His gripe a small storm in a

Sonic

Sonic In the hush of midnight air, A tremor rides the breath of night, A ripple spreads through earthen square, A pulse that flickers, swift and bright. It sings in whispers, low and

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