Poetry

Golem

In the dim alleys of an old Prague night, A clay‑figure rises, mute and bright, Fashioned by rabbi’s whispered prayer, From earth and water, shaped with care. His eyes are pits where

Goner

Goner In the dim‑lit lane behind the old cinema, a figure slips, shoulders hunched against the rain, each step a whisper on the wet pavement, a sigh that the wind carries away like old

Wooer

A wooer walks the lane where blossoms sigh, His heart a drum of hopeful, steady beat; He courts the moon, he woos the evening sky, With verses stitched in silk and scented sweet.

Delta

Delta In the quiet hush of morning tide, the river sighs and splits its pride, spilling silver threads to meet the sea— a living Greek letter, Δ, set free. Each distributary, a slender

Stout

In the dim‑lit tavern, a pint of stout waits, Its midnight hue a cloak of roasted barley fate. Silky as a woolen jumper on a Yorkshire morn, It whispers of oak, of coffee,

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