Poetry

Maple

In the quiet of an English garden, A maple stands, its leaves like amber glass, Each palm‑shaped frond a whisper of autumn, Turning gold as the sun’s low, honeyed light. Its sap, a sweet

Inane

Inane thoughts drift like lazy clouds, A pointless chuckle, soft and loud— They tickle the mind with frivolous sighs, Where sense takes leave and nonsense flies. We stroll through corridors of daft

Photo

A single frame, a quiet breath, Caught in silver‑halide light, Where moments linger, soft and still— A photograph, a slice of night. The shutter clicks, the world stands still, Colours blend in muted

Foggy

In the hush of early morning, A silver veil descends, Foggy streets lie mute and dreaming, Where lamplight softly bends. The world becomes a watercolour, Each contour blurred, indistinct, Footsteps whisper on the cobbles, As

Spiel

Spiel In the market square he stands, a barrel‑chested showman, His voice a brass band spilling over cobblestones, A torrent of patter that rolls like the Thames at flood, Each word a bright farthing,

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