Poetry

Helix

Helix In quiet labs where fibres twine, A double spiral draws the line, Each turn a whisper, soft and grand, Of life’s own code, a woven strand. From seashell’s curl to pinecone’s sigh, The helix climbs

Pride

Pride In quiet dawn the meadow sighs, A stag lifts head with steady eyes, His antlers crown the mist‑kissed glade, A silent honour, softly made. He walks where heather drinks the light, His step

Abase

When pride is stripped and honour’s crown is bowed, We watch the mighty sink, their spirits subdued. To abase a soul is to pull the bright sky low, To drag the lofty mountain

Stool

On a low, wooden stool I perch, Its sturdy legs a humble church Of quiet thought and steady grace, A simple seat in time and space. It bears the weight of weary

Crust

A slice of pie, its crust a golden lace, holds within a spiced apple flavour, each flake a whisper of buttered labour, cracking like dawn over a sleepy village.

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